"And when she does?"
"We run."
Sloane's scrubs I handled last night. She was in the shower with the bathroom door closed. I had maybe eight minutes. Her scrub drawer is in the bedroom closet, bottom left. She organizesby color. Navy, cerulean, gray, black, burgundy, wine, hunter green. Seven sets, folded tight, edges lined up because she's Sloane.
I pulled every set and replaced them with bright teal dinosaur print. Cartoon T. rexes wearing little nurse caps and stethoscopes. Folded them the way she folds hers, edges aligned, stacked neat so it looks right at a glance. She wouldn't notice until she was pulling one on at 4:30 a.m., half-asleep, running late for her five o'clock shift.
The originals are in a bag in the trunk. She'll get them back. Eventually.
Kyle handles the ducks. He texts updates every four minutes.
Kyle: Gym bag. Done.
Kyle: Locker. Done.
Kyle: Water bottle was tricky. Had to disassemble the lid. Done.
Kyle: Her car. Six in the glove box, one in each cupholder.
Kyle: Bar is loaded. Every shelf, between the bottles, along the rail, ice well, glass racks. Lost count around 230.
Kyle: Also I kept one. For morale.
Nash reads the thread over my shoulder. "He's going to be a problem."
I snort. "He's already a problem. But he's our problem."
The morning ops wrap before lunch. We regroup at the compound and eat at the pastel-covered table nobody has cleared.
The reports come in throughout the afternoon.
East's mom texts while we're finishing up, confirming she and Darla are inside the theater. We call the wrap guy and head over.
An hour later, East and I are in the theater parking lot watching a professional apply a six-foot photo of East's face to the driver's side door. Black and white. Candid. The photocatches him mid-laugh, chin angled, looking better than any man involved in a prank war has a right to look.
"East's #1 Fan" stretches across the hood in hot pink vinyl. "Honk if you love East" runs along the bumper. The dashboard bobblehead goes in last. Custom made. Shirtless.
East adjusts it twice.
"It's not centered," he says.
"It's a bobblehead of your naked torso," Nash says from the back seat. "Center is not the issue."
"Presentation matters."
The wrap guy finishes, collects his cash, and drives off without a word. East stands back to survey the full effect. His own face stares back at him from the door panel, six feet wide and grinning.
"Beautiful," he says.
"Disturbing," Nash corrects.
"Both," I say. "Now we wait."
We move across the street, turn the engine off, and lower the windows.
They come out around three. Darla stops at the edge of the lot. East's mom keeps walking, notices Darla isn't beside her anymore.
Darla stares at her car.
