I straighten my collar. “I’m a better class of criminal. A gentleman thief, if you will.”
I let Greg drive. We head back to Wallingford, stopping for drive-through coffee and fries along the way. When we hop back through the dorm window, the smell of take-out clings to our clothes so strongly that it takes half a bottle of air freshener to disguise it.
“Stop smoking in your room,” the hall master says at lights-out. “Don’t think I can’t tell what you’ve been doing in here.”
We laugh so hard that, for a moment, it seems like we’re never going to be able to stop.
The next morning I am walking to Developing World Ethics when Kevin Ford runs up to me. He stuffs an envelope into my hand.
“What are the odds that Greg Harmsford nailed Cloe Zacharov?” he asks, breathless.
“What?” I say.
“Am
