“Maybe you should all wait in the hall,” the sheriff said. “Me and Hank can handle it.” But no one moved as he looked for a spot to insert the crowbar end of the tool, finally choosing a position on the opposite side near the upper left corner. Grunting, he applied pressure, and the lid moved upward a small but perceptible amount. He did the same thing only a little to the right, then continued along the entire edge, moving around the first corner and then the second before the top was raised enough that, with Hank’s and Kyle’s help, it was able to be pried all the way off.

“Jesus,” Kyle said.

For inside, crouched in the middle of the crate, was a small child, a boy dressed in raggedy old-fashioned clothes. He stood when the lid came off. He could not have been more than five or six, a malnourished five or six, but he managed to leap up and out of the box, landing on the floor in front of Jen, Anita and Nick.

Jen gasped, backing away.

Anita instinctively grabbed Nick’s hand.

He was just a boy, but his skin was wrinkled and wizened, and as small as he was, he appeared frighteningly old. He looked from one of them to another with rheumy eyes.

“Holy fuck,” Hank said.

“Sometimes the god of money demands terrible sacrifices,” the sheriff whispered.

“What’s that?” Kyle asked.

Brad shook his head. “Something I heard recently.”

They all stood staring at the child, and it was Anita who spoke first, letting go of Nick’s hand and approaching cautiously. “What is your name?” she asked kindly.

“Theo.”

His voice was little more than a sandpapery whisper, and he cleared his throat before and after saying his name, as though he had not spoken in a long while, which, Kyle supposed, he hadn’t.

“How long have you been in that box, Theo?” the sheriff asked, taking over.

“A long time.” His eyes became slightly sharper. “Where is my bank? What street is it on?”

They all exchanged glances.

“Are Mr. Pickering and Mr. Worthington there?”

“The First People’s Bank?” the sheriff said.

“It is my bank,” the boy told them. “They stole it from me.”

None of them seemed to know what to say. There were so many questions, Kyle thought. How old was this kid? How could First People’s be his bank? Why had he been shoved in a box and kept here in this locked room? And how was he even alive? He said he had been in that box a long time, which Kyle took to mean a long time, and that meant that he had somehow survived without food or water.

What was he?

That was the big question, and Kyle wondered if they would be able to get an answer to that.

The boy cleared his throat. “How many banks?” he asked. “How many banks are there?”