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I see her—short skirt, eyes sharp, movin like she owns the block. “She’s got a pistol in her purse,” I think, quotin Robert Ford’s sneaky ass. I’m sweatin, heart racin—half excited, half pissed at myself for overthinkin it. What if she robs me? What if she’s a cop? Man, I’m trippin. “You’re too late, mister,” she says, sassy as hell, and I’m like, “Nah, I’m right on time, baby girl.” She laughs—score! That’s my in.

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We start working, and I’m trying to keep my cool, but Marco’s just cracking jokes. “Hey, if we mess this up, we can always start a firewood business!” I’m like, “Yeah, right, because that’s what I need—more chaos in my life.”

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