Viking’s steady voice eases my pounding heart. The intruders stop. One of them lifts the bolt cutter like a bat.
“Set it down, nice and easy.” Viking raises his hands to show he’s unarmed. “No one’s going to get hurt.”
The figure pauses, and while he hesitates Viking lunges forward and grabs his wrist. With a quick twist the bolt cutters drop to the floor, and Viking pins the intruder’s arm behind hisback. The second intruder backs up and into a stack of empty kegs which rattle, and one falls over and rolls across the floor.
I flip the lights on, and the intruders blink in the bright light. For the first time I see they’re just kids, teenagers barely out of school.
Their shoes are soaked from the storm, their oversized hoodies dripping onto the concrete. They’re shivering, their cheeks blotched with rain and fear.
They look familiar. Then it hits me: They’ve been on a tour through here.
“We just needed someplace dry,” the older boy says.
Viking still has his arm pinned, but gently, keeping him in check without pain. I step out from behind the door. I don’t want to get too close, so I stretch my booted foot out and slide the bolt cutter toward me, then bend to pick it up. The younger boy darts a glance my way and I stand tall; the bolt cutter gripped in my hands.
“Are there any more of you?” Viking asks.
“No.” The older one shakes his head. “Just us.”
“You’ve been here before,” I say. “You’ve done the tour.”
The boy looks down, silent.
“What are the bolt cutters for?” Viking asks quietly.
They don’t answer.
“I’ve got security cameras,” he says, “and some missing kegs. The footage shows you two taking them.”
It’s a bluff, but the boys don’t know the security cameras have been out of action until a few days ago.
The boys glance at each other, fear bright in their eyes.
The smaller one hisses to the older one, “I thought you took care of the cameras.”
The older boy shrugs, shooting him a dirty look. “Don’t say anything.”
“Who are you stealing the kegs for?” Viking’s voice softens.
The younger boy hangs his head. “We just needed extra money, for shoes and stuff. We didn’t mean any harm.”
“How many have you taken?” Viking already knows the answer, but he’s testing their honesty.
“Just two,” the older boy mumbles.
Viking releases his grip, and the boy rubs his wrist.
“You picked the wrong night,” Viking says.
The boy shrugs. “We figured no one would be out. The roads are closed.”
I peer at the boys, wondering at their desperate situation. What would drive them out here in a storm, risking their lives for a hundred bucks?
“There’s an alert in place. Did you know that?” Viking asks.
The boy shrugs. “We need the money.”
I share a look with Viking. In his eyes, I see his past. He was this boy once.
