And with that, I stood up, brushed myself off, and headed for Morning Wood.
By the time we got back to camp, the first rays of dawn were peeking through the trees and the fire had burned low. Everyonehad wandered off to their tents or cabins, including Randy, who had finally crashed in the communal lodge, sprawled across a pile of blankets, with the drone of his snores filling the room.
His book—our problem—was tucked firmly under one arm.
We crouched just outside the entrance and peered at him through the window.
Bethany shifted beside me. “So…how do we do this?”
Callie was rummaging through the stuff on a nearby picnic table, and she held up a book with a small, triumphant sound.The Cosmic Guide to Unlocking Your Personal Power: Harnessing the Inner Vortex for Manifestation and Spiritual Ascension.“We’ll just swap it out with this, Temple of Doom style, and he won’t even notice.”
I stared at the glittery, embossed cover. “It’s awfully…sparkly.”
She shrugged. “We’re lucky to find a book around here at all.”
Fair point.
I pulled a crumpled paper bag from a pile of kindling. “Then let’s cover it up and hope for the best.”
I ripped the bag open and wrapped it around the new book, hoping for something rustic and mysterious. It looked like a fourth-grade math textbook.
Bethany tilted her head to one side. “We need it to look…aged.”
We turned, in perfect unison, to the abandoned cups of nasty campground coffee sitting nearby.
A minute later, we had the worst forgery in history. The page edges were unevenly stained, the paper bag was damp in some spots and dry in others, and the whole thing had the sad, soggy look of a lunch bag left out in the rain.
I held it up.
Bethany squinted.
Callie nodded decisively. “It’s perfect.”
Doubtful. But it was all we had. I squared my shoulders and stood. “Let’s get this over with.”
Creeping into the lodge was easy. Yes, the door hinges complained, and yes, the floorboards squeaked like nobody’s business. But Randy was out cold, mouth open, drooling into his pillow.
Unfortunately, the sacred book was wedged under his arm, clutched tighter than a favorite teddy bear.
I braced myself. This was going to take finesse.
I eased the fake book into my left hand. My right hovered over his grip, waiting for the exact moment his breathing shifted just enough—there.
A slow, steady movement. Swap the books, tuck the new one in, pull the old one free.
Almost there.
Then my sleeve caught on Randy’s blanket.
Not just any blanket. A hideous, scratchy, crocheted afghan, the kind made from whatever yarn was left in someone’s craft bin. It was mostly mustard yellow, with bursts of burnt orange and moss green, and my stupid button had lodged itself into one of the loose stitches.
I froze.
Randy stirred.
Bethany’s eyes went huge, her mouth forming the words “oh no” with a sharp inhale. Callie slapped both hands over her own face like she was watching a horror movie unfold in real time.
I tried to pull back gently, but the afghan shifted, dragging Randy’s pillow just enough to make him grumble.
