Free Vassa in the Night by Sarah Porter Page A

two-fifty.”
    â€œWhy don’t you all just cough up and figure out the details later?” I suggest. “Who has a twenty?”
    One problem with the no-pocket rule is that it’s taking them all forever to get their money, worming dollars out of holes in their cuffs or reaching up under their sweaters to pull out baggies duct-taped to their guts. I find myself distinctly unhappy, watching them claw out singles and quarters and flop them on the counter. Now and then a wadded bill tumbles to the floor and someone has to go after it. Like the sagging hood this strikes me as a weak spot in their technique, and I don’t much like having the register open, either.
    â€œGuys, seriously. You should hurry up,” I say. I start picking up bills and smoothing them out. There aren’t enough.
    There’s a faint, dry, slithering sound near the register. I look over, expecting to see the hands, but there’s nothing there. The bills in the drawer are stirring slightly. There must be a draft; the front door keeps flicking ajar and then shutting again.
    Opera bends over, probably to get that last nickel he mentioned from his shoe. “Hey, here’s a twenty! On the floor.”
    Lottery holds her hand out. “Oh, I must have dropped that! Thanks, Tomin!”
    He’s dangling the bill in front of his face as if it was a dead scorpion. “I don’t think anyone dropped it. Weird, it’s not moving now.”
    â€œMoving?” I ask.
    â€œI seriously could have sworn that it was crawling out from under the counter. It sounds crazy, but then this place is not entirely normal.”
    In the corner of my eye there’s a pale shimmying, and I spin to see a bill draping itself over the drawer’s edge and then dropping. I catch it in time and smack it back down. “I think that came from the register,” I say, my throat tight. “Look, you have to give it back.” Just glancing over at him for an instant was a mistake. I can hear the whispery coasting of paper on paper and I lean in and cover the drawer with my arm.
    â€œOoh, I’ve got one!” Felice squeals. “Free money!”
    I slam the drawer as a light cascade of paper flutters over its edge. Bills stick out from the top, fingering the air impatiently, but I’ll deal with them later. I’m climbing onto the counter now while they’re all stooped and staring, now and then stamping suddenly as currency wafts in reach of their feet. Money must be everywhere. I’m just starting to comprehend what a disaster this is, and Erg isn’t even in my sleeve anymore.
    â€œThe balance in the register has to be perfect! You don’t—” Felice is already stuffing money down her shirt. Right; no pockets. “I saved your idiot friend, and now you’re going to get me killed? Look, please just help.”
    Opera, or I guess Tomin, is diving around on the floor and snagging up cash, but he—alone out of everyone—reaches toward me with the ruffling fistful held out. An offering. I’d appreciate it if I had time for anything besides tumbling over the counter, grabbing like the rest of them at the paper oblongs that skim along the floor like autumn leaves packing their own private breezes.
    The store chooses this moment to start lowering itself toward the ground. As long as we’re all trapped in here there’s still a chance, but once they take off into the night with those stolen bills there won’t be much hope left for me. We’re already touching down, the glass door yawning wide, and Felice is gamboling toward the open night with laughter babbling over her lips and dollars twitching in her cleavage. I can barely think, but I leap after her and grab her arm, trying to make her understand —
    The cash register drawer shoots open with a bang and money lofts into the air like confetti. Night breezes spiral in, and I see bills coiling up as if wrapped around