“WHAT’S THE STORY, boys?” said Chief Priewe. “Everything all right?”

“Everything’s great,” Tommy answered, emptying his bin into the recycling dumpster. “No stories here. Might want to try the library there, Chip.”

Priewe went a light shade of red, standing next to his cruiser. Rich and Tom had decided to run the bottles and cans down to the drop-off lot, near the exit road across from Aubel Farms. They took Richard’s Blazer, and no sooner than they’d pulled into the lot—wouldn’t you know it—reliable old Chief of Police Prick-we had steered right in behind them and gotten out, adjusting his mirrored sunglasses. Just like a bad penny, Tommy had time to think.

“That your bin, Tom?”

Truitt shook the items out and dropped the blue plastic bin to the ground, slamming the dumpster lid closed. “No,” he said, irritated, “my friend came all the way from Maine so he could dump his recyclables—you got us.” He laughed. “Whose do you think it is?”

“Easy, Thomas. Don’t get e
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