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Chicago

Chicago shows up at Grand’s, triumphant, smelling like rye.

“Nobody takes precautions,” she enunciates, lying back with her feet in the pool. “Nobody changes the factory password. Nobody locks both drawers in a desk.”

“Nobody expects a fifteen-year-old to be snapping pictures,” says Grand, amused, “through the glory hole in the storage closet.”

“Will now.” Chicago shrugs, wiggling her shoulders against the warm concrete. “Tooo laaate.”

“Tell me which of your victims is which someday,” says Grand, lighting a roach in its clip. He inhales, then proffers it.

“No way,” says Chicago, standing, swaying. “That shit’s bad for you.”

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