Free Nickel Bay Nick by Dean Pitchford

pack of playing cards. Stuff like that.
    â€œAccording to my research,” Mr. Wells explains, “these items are among the most likely to be purchased when they go on sale.”
    We’ve labeled each ad with Post-its numbered from one to fifteen, and on a map of Nickel Bay, we’ve assigned each number to a store where that ad’s product is sold.
    â€œSo talk me through this,” Mr. Wells says. “Tomorrow, how will you start?”
    I push back my sleeves and point to a spot on the map. “I guess I’m going to pick up item number one—the box of women’s hair dye—in store number one, which is . . . Colodner’s Drugstore.”
    â€œCorrect.”
    I look up. “Can I ask you something?”
    He nods.
    â€œIs there any particular reason I’m starting at Colodner’s?”
    Mr. Wells looks puzzled. “Why would there be?”
    If he doesn’t know, I’m not going to tell him, but I once got arrested at Colodner’s. Until Mr. Colodner wised up and put in surveillance cameras, his store was where Jaxon and Ivy and I used to “shop” for all of our back-to-school supplies. Then one day, after slipping a three-ring binder under my jacket, I turned around to find Mr. Colodner with a cop at his side. I haven’t been back since.
    I fake a smile for Mr. Wells. “Nope, no reason,” I say quickly as I walk my fingers across the map. “Then, for item number two—a package of four double-A batteries—I cross the street to store number two. Hopkins Hardware.”
    â€œPrecisely,” Mr. Wells declares. “And if you simply follow the sequence of numbers on the map, you’ll never waste a step. Once you’re done with your route, what do you do with the items you’ve collected?”
    â€œI bring them all back here, and then, I guess, we stick Nickel Bay Bucks into them?”
    â€œSo far, so good. You’ll need this.” He slides a white letter-size envelope across the table to me. I open it to find a stack of paper money—ones, fives and tens—and rolling around at the bottom of the envelope is a bunch of coins.
    â€œWhat’s this for?”
    â€œThat is exactly as much cash as you will need to purchase all these items tomorrow.”
    â€œWait a second!” I blurt out. “I’m supposed to
buy
all these things?”
    â€œHow did you think you were going to get them out of the stores?” Mr. Wells asks.
    â€œI thought I was going to . . . y’know . . .” I pretend to pick up an imaginary object and slip it into my pocket.
    Mr. Wells wrinkles his brow. “You think I’d ask you to steal?”
    â€œWell, you’re the one who said you needed a thief!”
    â€œBut I’m not going to have you shoplift on Day One of the Red Mission!” he insists. “What if you got caught? Operation Christmas Rescue would have to be scrapped.”
    I sulk for a moment. “Well, what do you need a thief for, then?”
    â€œAh.” Mr. Wells holds up a finger. “I need a thief for the day
after
tomorrow.”
    â€œDecember twenty-ninth?”
    â€œExactly. The fourth day of Christmas is when you will retrace the route we have plotted today and return everything where you got it. Same exact shelf. Same exact position.
That
will take the cunning and concentration of a thief. Are you up to the challenge?”
    I scowl and shrug. “We’ll see, won’t we?”
    Mr. Wells keeps ignoring all the attitude I’m tossing his way, and we work through the rest of my assignment in agonizing detail.
    At one o’clock—according to my Rolex—Dr. Sakata serves us each a bowl of really good tomato soup and a chicken salad sandwich. He and Mr. Wells talk for a few minutes in that language I don’t understand, and then Dr. Sakata leaves us to eat in silence. Looking down the table at the mounds of