The Receiver

1 2 - S T O L E N

The next morning, I put in a huge order for new supplies like the ones Milo and Katz received. Scrolling down the laserscreen for bigger crates, I bump the quantity up to fifty this time without bothering to check and see if the helipods can hold that many. We'll have to request a bigger helipod too, one with a larger cargo hold. I know we could stack the smaller crates six high before the weight became a burden for the hover boards so I order newer, bigger boards too.

This is how people must have felt back when things like the lottery existed, when money was given out for free randomly or for playing a game like a gambling machine, and the winners would fantasize about how to spend their prize. I know what to do with these credits (thousands more than Iris and I together could ever use) without having thought about it for more than a few minutes.

I have Zoa to thank for that.

Iris follows me into my bedroom and by the time we get to the closet our purchases have already arrived. I employ her and Frank's help to line them all up, tops open, on my bedroom floor and on my bed, a few spilling out into the hall. We spend the better part of an hour organizing them, making sure every item gets equally distributed.

When the last packets of fruit leather are tossed into the bins, all the tops are closed and secured, and packing is officially done, we stand back to appreciate our work, hands on hips.

Iris suddenly breaks into laughter, softly at first, just air through her nose, then louder until her cheeks flush pink.

"Who tickled your funny bone?" I ask. I don't think I've seen Iris laugh for at least two trips around the sun.

"I love it," she says, finally catching her breath.

"Love what?"

"We're buying all this with Stone family money."

"Yeah..."

"Which means Zoa is helping out us 'downcity scum' whether she likes it or not."

For someone like Iris, this must be the sweetest kind of revenge.

"Hey," I scold, moving to stack the crates. "We're not downcity scum anymore."

"Once a bottomfeeder..." she begins, bending to help me.

I don't respond, but I know how the saying goes.

"She probably doesn't know what we're doing," I say. "Our credits go through Zander first."

"So she doesn't even know we're doing this?"

I shrug. "There's a good chance."

"That's even better," Iris smiles.

Requesting a larger helipod is easy. We just fib to Tetra about the capacity. She doesn't even question Iris when she mentions something about fifty of our closest imaginary friends.

Once each crate has been strapped in, we climb into the pod and instruct it to land in the same spot, on the roof of the mall as it did before. Only this time when we take the bins down, we'll make deliveries to as many places as we can. On the way there, I daydream about what we could do with this opportunity. Maybe we start with the mall then move farther out into the city. Conceivably, we could do this every day because the amount we spend barely makes a noticeable dent in the weekly balance Zander keeps stashed in our account.

Once we land, the process goes just as smoothly as the last time. We stack as many as we're comfortable guiding, and push them down to May's place. When we get to there, the backdoor is open a crack. Iris and I leave the crates in the hall and take a few steps inside. The vending machine barrier is smashed even worse than it was before, lying face-down on the floor of their trashed home.