The week leading up to Saturday is when I realize they're escalating.
Monday morning I walk into the break area for coffee and stop dead. My mug—the one I've been using all week, the chipped blue one that's become mine—is sitting on the top shelf. The very top shelf. The one that requires either a ladder or the ability to defy gravity.
I stare at it. Process. Then raise my voice loud enough to carry into the garage. "REALLY?"
"What?" Finn calls back, voice dripping with fake innocence.
"My mug is on the top shelf."
"Weird. Must've grown legs. Things do that in the desert heat. Scientific fact."
I drag a chair over, climb up to retrieve my mug while muttering under my breath. "Tall bastards. Both of them. Freakishly tall bastards who think this is funny."
Finn's laughing. I can hear it echoing through the garage.
Tuesday my stapler appears on the top shelf. Wednesday it's my favorite pen—the clicky one that actually works, unlikethe other seventeen pens in the drawer. Thursday I find my Post-it notes up there, bright yellow and mocking, just out of reach.
That's when I decide: if they're going to play, I'm going to play back.
Friday morning, Holt walks to his workbench and stops. Stares. His favorite wrench—the one he uses for everything, the one that lives in the exact same spot every single day—is gone.
I watch from my desk, pretending to be deeply focused on invoices.
He crouches down. Checks the bottom shelf. The very bottom shelf, the one that requires actual kneeling to access. His wrench is there, tucked neatly behind a box of parts, perfectly placed where someone very short would find it convenient.
He straightens up. Looks directly at me. I'm grinning so hard my face hurts.
"Scout."
"Hmm?" Innocent. So innocent.
"My wrench."
"What about it?"
"It's on the bottom shelf."
"Weird. Must've fallen. Things do that. Physics." I go back to my invoices, still grinning. "Maybe you should organize your tools better. Keep them somewhere accessible."
Finn emerges from under a truck, takes one look at the situation, and starts laughing. "Oh, she's learning. She's adapting. I'm so proud."
"This means war," Holt says, but his mouth is twitching. Almost smiling. Definitely trying not to.
"Bring it," I say. "I've got short person rage on my side. You don't stand a chance."
By Monday of the following week, we've hit full escalation. My lunch disappears—found eventually on the top shelf of the filing cabinet. His socket set vanishes—located onthe floor behind the desk where he'd have to crawl to reach it. Finn's favorite screwdriver goes missing entirely until I casually mention checking "kid height storage locations."
It's petty. It's ridiculous. It's the most fun I've had in years.
Tuesday afternoon brings a different kind of entertainment. A customer walks in—middle-aged guy in khakis and a polo, the kind who looks like he's about to mansplain to me something simple. He's got that energy. That "I'm very important" energy that makes my teeth hurt.
I'm at the desk when he approaches. "I need to talk to whoever's in charge."
"That would be Holt." I gesture toward the garage. "He's with a customer right now but he'll be with you in a few minutes. Can I help you with something?"
"I need a full brake system overhaul and I need it done by tomorrow."
I glance at the schedule. We're booked solid. "I can put you on the schedule for next week—"
