Wild Reckless

“Bullshit, you’ll just take off,” the old man says.

“Where the FUCK am I gonna go?” Owen yells, his eyes simmering now, the shadow closing in over him. “Fuck! You know who I am! You all know my family! This isn’t a big town. You seriously think I’m going to shoplift a bracelet for sixty bucks—then leave my home and go off into the sunset? Where the fuck would I go, man? Use some goddamned logic at least if you’re going to judge me without any facts or reasons.”

“Let me look,” I say, my eyes darting between the officer and the shop owner, neither of them paying attention. “Owen, where are your keys?”

“In the back. This prick took them,” he says.

“Don’t you call me that,” the old man says.

I ignore them all, march to the back where Owen’s keys are sitting on a stack of notebooks on an old metal desk. I grab them and walk back through the store. “Hey, you can’t take those. Those aren’t yours!” the old man yells as I pass him.

“Yeah, well they aren’t yours either, you prejudiced asshole!” I say as I storm through the door, the small string of bells dangling from the door handle announcing my exit.

I find Owen’s truck quickly, parked near the road, away from the shops, in a spot no customers would want. I unlock his door and scan my eyes over his seat, the only thing there an empty licorice wrapper and the paper from a stick of gum. Owen’s sunglasses are on the dashboard, as are a few papers. I leaf through them, noting that one of them is a letter from Bradley University, interest in Owen’s basketball intentions. The letter looks yellowed, so I look to find the date—two months old.

I toss the stack of papers back to their spot on the dash and pull open the glove box, finding nothing but his insurance and registration card and an envelope with a few dollar bills inside and some gas receipts. It has to be here. I know it in my heart that he isn’t lying.

Stepping away from the truck, I look at the long bench seat through the open door, and I pull my hand to my mouth, my teeth working on my short, already chewed down thumbnail while I think. With a small tilt of my head, I notice something different along the floorboard, deep in a corner along the floor of Owen’s driver’s side. There’s a small speck of pink, and when I step closer, I realize it’s paper. Scooting forward on my elbows, I move my body under the steering wheel and lift slightly on the gas pedal, sliding the floor mat back a tiny bit.

MOORE’S GIFT HUT is written in large, bold letters along the top, and a handwritten note details a bracelet, today’s date, $58.47, and it’s signed by the name Patricia. I grasp it in my hand, wrinkling it, but more concerned about somehow dropping it, or a gust of wind carrying it away. I slam Owen’s door to a close and run back to the store where the officer now has Owen standing, his palm on his back getting ready to guide him through the door.

“It’s here! It’s here!” I say, pushing the receipt into the officer’s hands. He sets his clipboard down, lets his other hand fall away from Owen, then unwrinkles the pink paper for inspection.

“Sir, is this receipt from your store?” he asks, handing the paper to the old man, who scrambles to push his glasses to the tip of his nose, holding the paper up in the light. I’m looking at an entire stack of similar pages stuck through a pin on his counter, and I turn to Owen and wink. But Owen’s face still looks sullen.

“Patricia, yeah she was here this morning. And the numbers all match up,” he says, standing and walking over to the counter, pulling a few old receipts out just to make sure the handwriting is to his satisfaction. He’s putting on a show, because he’s embarrassed; he was wrong.

“All right, looks like things worked out this time, Harper,” the officer says, pulling a pocket knife from his pocket and cutting the strip of plastic on the disposable cuffs that were holding Owen hostage. He rubs his wrists and stretches his arms across his chest, then turns to look at the old man across the counter.

“Well…you can’t be too careful,” the old man begins, his voice stuttering, panicked. He can’t believe he was wrong. Owen doesn’t say a word, only holding out his hand until the old man realizes what he wants, and hands him the bracelet.

“I’ve been stolen from a lot this year,” the old man continues, trying to explain to me now, but I’m no longer interested in anything he has to say either. I follow Owen out the door, and as we pass my mom’s car, I expect him to stop, but he keeps walking. After he’s several paces ahead of me, I call his name, but he doesn’t turn around. His pace is steady, and his shoulders are low, ashamed.