Suddenly, I know what the right thing is.

That money that was donated at the cleanup doesn’t belong to the center. It needs to go back to the pawn broker, and that earring needs to go back to Maya. Its rightful owner.

And it’s okay—it’s fair—because Grace Livingstone’s legacy will live on. Her generous contributions to the center will continue.

I know what I have to do.

* * *

I check first to be sure that Shauna and Rosa are out in the yard. I wait until the last of the volunteers have finished with their lunch and gone back downstairs.

Even though I know I’m doing the right thing—that the universe has my back in this—my heart is still drumming as I open the door to Shauna’s office.

The glass jar is sitting on the corner of her desk, still full of green bills and spare change. My palms are clammy as I shut the door, leaving it open just a crack so that I’ll be able to hear if anyone is coming.

Okay. Let’s make this quick.

I slip over to the desk and untwist the jar’s lid. I reach inside and grab a fistful of cash. I drop it onto the desk and start sorting through the bills, but it’s slow-going. Much slower than I thought it would be. People don’t just throw money into these donation jars. No. They fold and roll them, like little origami trinkets. I have to unfold each one, smoothing it out and stacking like bills together.

On first glance, the amount in the jar had looked extremely promising, but the more money I pull out, the more skeptical I become. It’s almost entirely one-dollar bills. A few fives, a handful of twenties. But mostly ones.

Probably the beachcomber would have dropped her donation in all at once, but there is no stack of hundreds or fifties. I keep digging. Keep unfolding. Keep sorting.

Sweat is beading on the back of my neck. Anxiety claws at my throat. Every time the animals start yelping down in the yard, it makes me jump out of my skin.

I’m not guilty. I’m not doing anything wrong. I’m not stealing. I’m just helping to return that earring to Maya, without hurting anyone. And this doesn’t hurt the center, I tell myself. No one will even know that some of it has gone missing, and what they don’t know can’t hurt them.

At least, that’s what I keep telling myself, all the while silently promising to work extra hard on the next fundraiser to make up for it.

I hear clomping, uneven footsteps. Someone is entering the break room.

I freeze.

I listen as whoever it is gets something from the fridge.

Water runs in the sink.

More footsteps. Someone else comes in—

“Oh, hey! You’re back!”

My breath hitches. Quint.

“Yeah. Finally,” says a female voice. “Still lugging this thing around, though.”

There’s a loud thud.

“I like that you went with the bright pink. Gutsy choice.”

I dare to crane my head, peering through the gap in the door. I can’t see Quint, but I catch a glimpse of the girl. It’s Morgan, sporting a fluorescent-pink cast on her leg covered with doodles and words. Two crutches are propped up against the counter as she sips from an aluminum water bottle.

She glances my way.

I jerk back. I’m trying not to breathe, but the pressure from unspent breaths is building up inside my chest. I try to let the air out slowly, silently, but it only seems to make it worse.

“I feel like you’ve missed a lot,” says Quint. “It’s been exciting around here lately.”

“Yeah, I heard there’s some new girl who’s been shaking things up.”

“Prudence. Yeah. She’s…” He pauses. I strain to hear what he’s going to say, but whatever it is he’s thinking, he must change his mind. “You’ve met her, actually. When we went to that place with the karaoke? She’s the one that slipped and hit her head.”

“Oh. Right. Is she doing okay?”

“I think so, yeah.”

“Cool. That was a weird week. Hey—that reminds me. The petition I was working on that night? You know, to shut down that so-called farm? Sounds like we might be making progress. The USDA says they’re going to investigate it.”

“Nice,” says Quint. “Congratulations?”

“Nothing’s changed yet, but yeah, thanks. Anyway. I guess I’m on chart duty until I get this thing taken off. Still, it’s good to be back. I missed all those little guys down there.”

“They missed you, too.”

More clomping as she and her crutches head back toward the stairs. I listen until Quint leaves, too, before finally releasing my breath, and just as quickly sucking in a new one. Gah, that was the longest two minutes of my life.

I turn my attention back to the stacks of money I’ve laid out. There’s still plenty of change in the jar, but I ignore it. The beachcomber did not give us twelve hundred dollars in quarters.

But this doesn’t look like enough.

I count through it, starting with the solitary fifty-dollar bill, then working my way through the twenties. The tens. The fives.

I know long before I start in on the ones that something is wrong.

This isn’t going to add up to anything even close to twelve hundred dollars.

I pick up the tall stack of ones, but I don’t bother. It’s fifty dollars at most.

What the heck? Did that woman lie to me? Did she just say that she gave the money to the center so I wouldn’t pester her about taking it back to the pawnshop?

But she seemed so sweet. So genuine.

It doesn’t make sense.

And honestly, even without the twelve-hundred-dollar windfall I believed was in here, shouldn’t there still be more than this? There had to be hundreds of people who put money into this jar.

But maybe I miscalculated. Or maybe I’d naively thought that most people would be handing over fives and tens, even the occasional twenty, when in reality, it was just the loose change at the bottom of their pockets.

Someone knocks at the door.

I gasp and look up as the door swings open—agonizingly slow.

Quint stands there, his hand still raised.

He blinks at me and looks from my face, which is already reddening, to the stack of dollar bills in my hands, to the near-empty donation jar.

THIRTY-TWO

“Prudence?” he says, brows furrowed. “What are you doing?”

“I’m sorry!” I spout, even though I haven’t done anything. Haven’t taken anything. Even though I have absolutely nothing to be sorry for.

I start shoving the money back into the jar.

“I was just dying to know what we made!” I laugh, and I know how nervous it sounds, how incriminating. My hands are shaking. “The suspense was killing me.”

He chuckles, a little uncertainly. “Yeah, right. I asked Shauna earlier and she said she hasn’t even gotten to it yet. That she’ll let us know tomorrow.”

“Gah, tomorrow! That’s, like, ages away!” I’m laying it on too thick. I try to calm myself down as I twist the lid back onto the jar.

“I know. So?”

I stare at him. “So?”

His eyebrows lift and he gestures at the jar. “How did we do?”

“Oh! Uh…” I shrug helplessly. “I’d only just gotten everything sorted. I didn’t have time to count yet.”

“Oh.” He still looks skeptical, even as he nods. “I guess we’ll both be surprised, then?” A moment of awkward silence passes between us, before Quint’s face starts to clear. “Regardless of how much it is, I know everyone is really happy with how the cleanup went. Mom said she’s even had a few people call about volunteer opportunities.”

“Really? That’s great.”

“Yeah.” He presses his lips together and I can tell he wants to say something, but I’m still too agitated to guess what it is. Too freaked out that he’s about to accuse me of stealing. Which … I didn’t do. Which … it wasn’t.

Was it?

No. No. I’m not a thief. Thieves are bad people. I am not a bad person.

I clear my throat and intercept whatever it is he’s wanting to say. “What are you doing here?” Then, realizing that’s a guilty-sounding question, I amend, “I didn’t think you were on the schedule today.”

“I’m not.” He leans against the doorjamb. “Has anyone told you yet? About Lennon?”

“Oh! Yes. The blindness.”

He nods and I can tell he’s waiting to see how I’m doing. To see if I’m devastated at this news. But when I don’t break down in sobs, he continues. “And they’re going to try introducing him and Luna.”

“That! Yes. Right. Of course you came for that.”

He chuckles. His look is no longer accusatory, and so my thumping pulse is gradually returning to normal. “That’s actually why I was looking for you. They’re getting ready to move Lennon.”

“Oh, great! Let’s go!”

I start to brush past him, eager to get out of this office. But I’m only two steps into the break room when Quint catches my arm.

“Hey, can I ask you something?”

I look back, dread filling me. “Sure. Of course.”

“How, um…” His hand falls away and hangs at his side for a second. Then he scratches behind his neck. “After Shauna counts up the donations, how would you like us to let you know? I can call you … or send a text? Or email?”

I stare at him. “Um. I mean, tomorrow’s Tuesday. So … I’ll be here. You can just … tell me?”

“Right, except. I counted, and … today is your sixteenth day volunteering. Which, according to our original agreement, means that today is your last day.”

I lean back, startled. My mouth forms a surprised O, but no sound comes out.

Freedom, I think. I can have the rest of my summer to do whatever I want.

Why is it that I feel no joy whatsoever at the thought?

“And, in case you aren’t sure, I’ll definitely still help with the revised report. For Mr. Chavez. You held up your end of the deal, so I’ll—”