Free THIEF: Part 1 by Kimberly Malone Page A

I can see one of the high schoolers from here, feeding a carrot to a blonde philly.  Somebody should film her for the ranch commercial.
                  “Not there,” the woman says, reading my mind.  She puts a hand on my shoulder and herds me forward.  “That’s the main ranch, for the country club.”
                  Ah, of course, I think.  Those girls wouldn’t volunteer for shit.  They’re either members, or actual employees.
                  “So where’s the…”  I don’t know what to call it, so I just spit it out: “…special kids ranch?”
                  The woman—her name-tag says Juliet, which sounds too fragile for her—laughs at this.  “Therapy and outreach ranch,” she corrects, “or special-needs ranch.  Whichever.  But you were pretty close.”  We crest a small hill, and another stable comes into view.  It’s smaller, with a modest cabin attached and squat buildings scattered about.  The corral seems pretty basic, just an octagon of blistered white wood and dirt.
                  “Where are all the kids?” I ask.
                  “They’ll be here soon.  The morning camp starts at eight, afternoon camp starts right after lunch.  We’ve got another half-hour or so, if you want the tour now.”
                  This makes me smile, if only because my life is so laughably pathetic: what choice do I really have?  So for the next thirty minutes, Juliet shows me the glamourous life of Fox Ridge Ranch employees.  Two soda machines in the lounge, a ladies’ room that never runs out of paper towels thanks to also serving as a supply closet, and, best of all, the “rewards of working with campers.”  Whoo-hoo.
                  When the first shuttle arrives, I try to take my cue from Juliet.  She doesn’t bat an eye at these kids, and some are kind of shocking, at first.  One little girl is missing an eye—there’s not an empty socket, though.  No socket at all, just a slight dent in the skin where a socket should be.  I try to keep my stares subtle, but Juliet picks up fast.
                  “It takes some getting used to,” she whispers, while the kids hurry to the stables to gear up.  “Me, I guess I’m just used to it by now.  Give it a couple weeks, you’ll see.”
                  I nod cheerfully, right when a kid as tall as me starts crying because he’s peed his pants.  My first official act of community service: fetching a pair of Emergency Shorts from the supply bathroom.  I take a minute to mop my sweaty boobs and neck with paper towels, then fix my hair the best I can.  It still looks like crap.
                  I check my watch: one hour down, and only ninety-nine more to go.
     
     
    As promised, Juliet cuts me loose at twelve-thirty, after my disappointing lunch of PB&J and a mostly-green banana.  Mom insisted on packing it.  My name is written in her shaky scrawl on the front of the bag, surrounded with ink-stain hearts.  I crumple it up before anyone notices.
                  I find a sturdy shovel in one of the tool sheds and drag it towards the stables.  As a “community-employed staff member,” as Juliet called me, I’m clearly bottom-rung here.  My main jobs seem to have one thing in common: waste, and lots of it.
                  “You’ll be in charge of emptying the trashcans around the property,” Juliet had explained.  It was right before lunch, and she didn’t notice I was quickly losing my appetite.
                  “The whole property?”
                  She nodded.  “You’ll get a golf cart for that, don’t worry.  And it’s just a few outdoor cans, near the trails.  You’ll take the bags out, replace them, and then haul them to the dumpster behind our lounge.”  She checked her clipboard.  “Looks like Silas already did them