The Heist at Cordia Aquarium

Dew decorates each blade of the hospital's lush grass like intricate coats woven of pure jewels, the early morning sun and passing clouds send steady waves of sparkles over each little member of royalty.

Grumbling, Waylon stomps along a sidewalk sandwiched between the lawn and parking lot. "Who teaches doctors to treat people like that." And where did he park? Section E?

Tiny blue signs with white text peek above the roofs of sedans, vans, and trucks. Waylon's eyes squint and he works to make out the lettering of a nearby sign. The bottom half is cut off, but it's an "E". He zigzags between the rows of parked cars.

Past a particularly tall truck, the sign stares back: "F". He sighs. "Why aren't these taller?"

The surroundings aren't helpful. The only sign visible is the wrong one with every other one dipping far enough below cars to be unreadable. He fishes out the key fob in his pants pocket. It's an ugly little thing: black plastic scarred by drops, pictograms gone, and a cluster of sentimental knickknacks dangling from it. Waylon glances towards one of those knickknacks: a picture of him and Phil at a showing for a movie he's forgotten. He lets a smile slip, then presses on the lock button twice.

A flock of mourning doves fly into the air to escape the honk, only to perch on the power lines just overhead. Waylon heads toward the sound. His car is an ugly little thing too: enough dents on the bumpers to need toes to count, chipping paint, and — as of the last hour — a ton of bird shit. Door handle included.

He glares up at the birds and rolls up one of his sleeves. "Really?"

One of the doves tilts its head. Pain throbs behind Waylon's left temple. He lowers himself in front of the glass and exhales: foggy breath rolls across the glass leaving behind a layer of opaque condensation. He rubs it away with his exposed forearm and the spots where foggy glass was moments before are now only outlined in abrupt edges. Like a huge caterpillar took a couple bites. With tired unfocused eyes, Waylon slips an arm through the largest hole and pulls the handle.

Crack. Waylon's heart and stomach leap, his arms shoot up around his head and he swivels in every direction. Nothing happens: no pain, no follow up sounds, nothing. Engine backfire? None of the cars nearby are on and no one is walking around. Then a thump rings out from his car's roof. Waylon takes a couple short breaths and inches his head back around. This is how all the people die in those horror movies, but he has to look.

A pair of green, vertical slit pupil eyes stare back unblinking and their owner clutches a dead mourning dove by sharp fangs. His heart settles. It's just a cat; a gross dead-dove-carrying cat.

The cat lays it on the roof and stares that unblinking stare with its head lowered. Nausea creeps up Waylon's stomach and into his chest. He bats at the grey-furred menace. "Shoo! Off!"

The cat hisses at the waving hands, then grabs the dove, darts down the rear-window, and leaps off the trunk. With a gulp to assuage the nausea, Waylon drops into the driver's seat. Disgusting.

By the time he leaves the parking lot, the hole in the driver-side window is almost gone; the edges of it blur toward the remaining opening like ice crystals propagating through water. he waits for it to close up, then pulls out into the road.

Just beside the hospital, a couple cars pull into the lot of a diner: Sickbay. One car belongs to the waitress, Pam. Arms wrapped around herself, she shambles up to the door, her blue apron dress and frizzy brown hair rustles in the wind. Waylon's hands tighten around the fake, peeling leather of the steering wheel and he parks at the end of the lot — far away from the other cars. This diner will work, even if the cook gives him guff.

Fake-leather upholstered booths line the windowed walls, a large bar with red-clad swivel chairs sits in the center, and everything beyond the kitchen door is a mystery besides the bit of the chefs head peeking through a small, metal trimmed wall cutout. Waylon slides into a corner booth and pulls a phone out of his inner coat pocket.

It's a beat up three-generation-old smartphone previously owned by some mid-level manager at the distribution center down the road. His hands start to jitter: this is just like the spy movies. Images of explosions and skydiving and cute tech guys with single letter names run through his mind.

Pam knocks on his table. "What're you having?"

Cold washes over Waylon's scalp as he comes back to the present with evidence of his wrongdoing laid out on the table; he flips the phone over into his lap. "Pancakes?"

Letting out a couple loud chews of the gum in her mouth, she rolls her eyes and head toward the kitchen window. "We doing pancakes?"

The deep grumble of a boar who woke up too early responds. "He's having hash browns and eggs."

She shrugs at Waylon. "You know the rules. That a problem?"

Waylon clenches his teeth and fidgets with the laminated menu. "I suppose not. Is he ever in a good mood?"

Another shrug. "Maybe try coming in a little later than the crack of opening every time." She walks back behind the bar and fiddles with the coffee machine.

Waylon rests his head on a hand supported by the table. Hash browns and eggs it is.

Pam drops off a full cup of coffee, some utensils, and a plate with two unevenly toasted slices of bread. "Five minutes."

Waylon leans his head toward her. "Thanks."

She's already gone and chatting with the cook through the kitchen window. Waylon flips the phone back over. Okay, shipping manifests. An image of the previous owner with a golden retriever appears and a ton of missed call notifications slide down in front of it. Waylon swipes them all away and searches through the apps. Idle games, to-do lists, meditation all alongside a "Work" folder. Waylon opens it then taps on an icon of a cartoon truck set next to a clock.

Black and white spreadsheets overflow the screen with dates, times, license plate numbers, and too much to think about. Waylon's left temple throbs again and he explores, trying to find someway to filter the massive amount of data. After some adjustments, the spreadsheets only show what matters: aluminum shipments leaving the distribution center tonight. Waylon takes a second phone out of his pants pocket and sends a cryptic message to the already open group chat: "It's on."