He had spent a cold night in the house with no blankets and no bed, but he was an outlaw now, so he had to just get over it. Today he would steal some stuff and find a place to hide it. He had always heard that bums lived in Oakwoods Park. Maybe he would live there too.

When it got light out he walked to the convenience store hoping, hoping, hoping with his fingers crossed that the old raghead guy that owned the place wasn’t working. He had chased Dennis out of the store a million times for shoplifting stuff and trying to look at the dirty magazines.

That Paki bastard—that was what Dennis’s father had called the old man, so Dennis called him that too.

Luckily the person behind the counter was a big, fat, pimple-faced girl, and the store was really busy with people getting coffee and doughnuts and burritos and stuff, so she didn’t notice Dennis.

He cruised the aisles, lifting a little thing here and there and slipping them into the big pouch pocket on the front of his hooded sweatshirt. A Slim Jim, some Lifesavers, a tire gauge—just because he’d always wanted one.

He could have whatever he wanted now. He was calling all the shots. Nobody could tell him what to do—especially not that stupid twat Miss Navarre.

The television bolted to the wall behind the counter was showing the morning news. Dennis watched with one eye, waiting to see a picture of himself on the screen.

Some woman had been rescued after falling down a well. There were no new leads in the murder investigation of local artist Marissa Fordham. Some crazy-looking white-haired guy had gone missing. Finally the screen filled with a shot of the county mental health center with flames shooting out a window on the second floor.

Dennis inched closer to the counter and strained to hear. According to the reporter, the fire had been contained to the second floor and damages to the building were minimal. But—and here was the exciting part. Dennis almost shit his pants when he heard it—one person had gone to the hospital with third-degree burns, and one had been killed—KILLED!—when an oxygen tank had blown through a wall.

He had killed somebody! The excitement was almost too much for him. Holy shit! He had killed somebody! He was a killer!

To celebrate, he bought himself a breakfast burrito and a Mountain Dew with some of the money he had stolen from the nurse. Then, because he was feeling like such a hotshot killer and all, he decided he would buy himself some cigarettes.

“And a pack of Marlboros,” he said.

The pimple-faced girl looked down at him. “Get real and get lost.”

“They’re for my mom.”

“No, they’re not.”