On The Count Of 3,

“Did you hear it?”
“I heard something. Rifles up.”
The flashlights on their rifles shine against the canopy as the guards approach the opening. Harold knows the shelf trick won’t work twice. They need to get out, and quick.
“What seems to be the trouble here?”
The voice of Shante’s father offers little relief, but they take it anyway.
Amber’s wet eyes break Harold’s heart as she looks at him, pleading.
“There’s something inside the canopy.”
Shante’s voice is far more comforting. Surely he can save them.
“Dad, I-”
“Silence, boy.”
Or not. Harold takes Amber’s hand and backpedals slowly. He allows his free hand to run absently over the shelves, having lost all hope in a weapon, he now searches for a prayer. His fingers grace the cover of a book.
“Sir, sensors got movement, near the woods.”
“Is this an attack?”
Harold and Amber duck behind a large cart. Harold notices a hole in the canopy.
A guard nears the opening. “We have to secure the perimeter.”
Harold whispers, "On the count of 3-

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