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The fluorescent lights of Kwik-E-Mart buzz overhead as Dolph balances a plastic flamingo on Jimbo's head, snickering. Nearby, Kearney digs into a half-price box of Crunchy-Os with his bare hands, cereal dust coating his shirt like battle scars. Apu's cellphone rings—the emergency siren tone he programmed for the fire department. He answers mid-stride toward the door, already shrugging into his orange vest.
"You are in charge," he announces to the room at large, gesturing vaguely at Jamshed perched atop the register counter and Chey lounging by the slushie machine.
Both kids blink up at him with unsettling serenity.
Dolph freezes, flamingo beak tickling his ear. "Uh. You trust us not to loot the place?"
Apu pauses in the doorway, sunlight haloing his frazzled silhouette. "Statistically, employee theft is nineteen percent more likely than customer theft during unsupervised—" The phone screeches again. "Just do not steal!" The door jingles shut behind him.
Kearney licks sugar from his knuckles. "'Course not," he mumbles to the empty air where Apu stood.
A shotgun racking sound splits the silence. Chey spins the barrel of her pink Hello Kitty twelve-gauge with one hand, Jamshed nodding along as his tiny fingers fumble with the pump-action grip of his Nerf Maverick. Their matching grins gleam like fresh-polished knives. Jimbo's flamingo clatters to the floor.
"Mother of God," whispers Dolph.
Kearney slowly sets down his cereal box. The crunch echoes like a grenade pin hitting concrete.