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Summary
“They’re only pens, Ceec,” Carlos said, trying hard to telegraph nonchalance with the sinking feeling that he had failed miserably.
“Only pens?” Cecil hissed, pulling the zipper closed, then opening it again to peer inside at the myriad writing tools. “Don’t you know what could happen to you if the Sheriff's Secret Police knew we had these?” His voice, in spite of his apparent efforts to control it, rose to the high pitch of panic as he hurriedly lifted a cushion of the chair, presumably to check for hidden microphones or cameras. “You… you could be locked up! You should be locked up!”