He slid the bills from the dirty envelope he had just found buried at the base of this old maple.
Two hundred bucks. Not a lot. But to the two of us, a fortune.
“We’ve gotta give it back,” I whined.
“To who?” he asked, now fanning himself with the wad of cash.
Solid point. The woods were deserted. Not a soul for miles.
“What about the police?”
He grabbed me by my collar. His brow furrowed, his eyes glowered.
“Go ahead. Call them,” he said. “See what happens…”
My big brother: volatile and dumb.
You can’t argue with that.
The Weekday One Hundred 