Sherrie ‘Sharp-Shooter’'s Arc

Chapter 2 of 13

Sherrie slid the list under the ledger just as the truck door slammed outside. She knew that sound. Her father never knocked, never called ahead. He showed up when he felt like checking on things, which meant she had about thirty seconds before he walked through the door. She grabbed a supply manifest from the hook and unrolled it over the ledger, weighing down the corners with inventory clips. Her father pushed through the door as she reached for a pen, his boots heavy on the concrete. He scanned the room, eyes settling on her workspace. "Just checking the numbers," she said, not looking up. He moved closer, leaning over her shoulder to see what she was working on. The manifest showed clean columns, standard entries, nothing that would make him ask questions. He grunted, stepped back, said something about the fence needing repair. Sherrie nodded, kept her hand flat on the paper. He stayed another minute, then left the way he came. She waited until the truck started before she lifted the manifest. The list underneath hadn't moved, but her hands were shaking. She'd bought herself time, but now he knew she was working late on inventory. Next time he showed up, he'd expect an explanation. She folded the list twice and walked outside, past the rusted sign her father had bolted to the fence pole twenty years back. Private property. His handwriting was still visible under the flaking paint where he'd traced the letters before ordering the metal pressed. She'd never replaced it, never touched it. The old RV sat ten yards beyond the sign, stripped down to its frame and used for parts storage now. She climbed inside through the side door that didn't latch anymore. Sherrie pulled a blank requisition form from the stack she kept clipped to the wall and copied three entries from the woman's list onto it in her own hand. Food stores, building supplies, medical stock. She burned the original in the small metal bin she used for trash, watching the paper curl black. The copied list she folded into her jacket. Her father had taught her to keep two sets of books when the supply lines got dirty. Now she'd do the same with her traitor hunt. He'd see the requisition if he asked. He'd never see what she was really tracking.