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“Pickpocketing is cute when you’re sixteen,” Sam says, and Millie’s already rolling her eyes, twenties between her fingers and a wallet in her other hand. “Not so much anymore.”
“Last I checked, we ain’t getting overtime for the Apocalypse.” Sam grimaces. She squirms and waves the money at him as a peace offering, but his brow furrows even more. He doesn’t take it.
“That was probably someone’s groceries.”
“And now it’s ours,” she argues. “We need to eat, too!” Two in the hand’s better than Sam’s hypothetical moral meal in the bush.
Sam sighs. “You’re better than this.”
“I’m not.”