“Oliver, I don’t care about the money,” he says as he slaps the envelope against my chest. “But if you don’t start making some changes soon, you’re gonna be that guy who – when he hits his forty-third birthday – hates his life.”

I stare him straight in the eye, unmoved by the comment. “At least I won’t be living with my mother in Brooklyn.”

His shoulders fall and he steps backwards. I don’t care.

“Get out,” I add.

At first, he just stands there.

“You heard me, Charlie – get out.”

Shaking his head, he finally heads toward the door. First slow, then fast. As he turns, I swear there’s a grin on his face. The door slams behind him and I look through the peephole. Doop, doop, doop – Charlie bounds up the stairs. “Open it and find out!” he shouts from outside. And just like that, he’s gone.

Ten minutes after Charlie leaves, I’m sitting at my kitchen table, staring down at the envelope. Behind me, the refrigerator’s humming. The radiator’s clanging. And the water in the teapot is just starting to boil. I tell myself it’s because I’m in the mood for some instant coffee, but my subconscious doesn’t buy it for a second.

It’s not like I’m talking about stealing the money. It’s just about my boss. It’s important to know what he thinks.

Outside, a car whizzes by, thumping through the crater-sized pothole that’s in front of the brownstone. Through the tops of my windows, I see the car’s black wheels. That’s the only view I get from the basement. The sight of things moving on.

The water starts boiling – hitting its high note and screaming wildly through my mostly bare kitchen. Within a minute, the high-pitched shriek feels like it’s been going for a year. Or two. Or four.

Across the table, I spot the most recent bill from Coney Island Hospital: $81,450. That’s what happens when you miss an insurance payment to juggle your other bills. It’s another two decades of mom’s life. Two decades of worrying. Two decades of being trapped. Unless I can get her out.

My eyes go straight to the blue-and-white envelope. Whatever’s inside… whatever he wrote… I need to know. For all of us.

I grab the envelope and shoot out of my seat so fast, I knock the chair to the floor. Before I know it, I’m standing in front of the tea kettle, watching the geyser of steam pound through the air. With a quick flick of my thumb, I open the tea kettle’s spout. The whistling stops and the column of steam gets thicker.

In my hands, the envelope’s shaking. Lapidus’s signature, perfect as it is, becomes a mess of movement. I hold my breath and struggle to keep it steady. All I have to do is put it in the steam. But just as I go to do it, I freeze. My heart drops and everything starts to blur. It’s just like what happened with the wire transfer… but this time… No. Not this time.

Tightening my grip on the envelope, I tell myself this has nothing to do with Charlie. Nothing at all. Then, in one quick moment, I hold on to the bottom of the envelope, lower the sealed side into the steam, and pray to God this works just like it does in the movies.

Almost immediately, the envelope wrinkles from the condensation. Working the corners first, I angle the edge toward the tea kettle. The steam warms my hands, but when I bring it too close, it burns the tips of my fingers. As carefully as I can, I slide my thumb into the edge of the envelope and pry open the smallest of spaces. Letting it fill with steam, I work my thumb in deeper and try to inch the flap open. It looks like it’s about to rip… but just as I’m about to give up… the glue gives way. From there, I peel it like I’m pulling the back from a Band-Aid.

Tossing aside the envelope, I yank open the two-page letter. My eyes start skimming, looking for buzzwords, but it’s like opening a college acceptance letter – I can barely read. Slow down, Oliver. Start at the top.

Dear Dean Milligan. Personalized. Good. I’m writing on behalf of Oliver Caruso, who is applying as a fall candidate for your MBA program… blah, blah, blah… Oliver’s supervisor for the past four years… blah and more blah… sorry to say… Sorry to say?… that I cannot in good conscience recommend Oliver as a candidate to your school… much as it pains me… lack of professionalism… maturity issues… for his own sake, would benefit from another year of professional work experience…

I can barely stand. My hands clamp tightly around the letter, chewing the sides to pieces. My eyes flood with tears. And somewhere… beyond the potholes… across the bridge… I swear I hear someone laughing. And someone else saying, “I told you so.”

Spinning around, I race to the closet and pull out my coat. If Charlie’s taking the bus, I can still catch him. Gripping the letter as I fight my coat on, I yank open the door and-

“So?” Charlie asks, sitting there on my front steps. “What’s new in Whoville?”

I screech to a halt and don’t say a word. My head’s down. The letter’s crumpled in my fist.

Charlie studies me in an instant. “I’m sorry, Ollie.”

I nod, seething. “Were you serious about before?” I ask him.

“Y’mean with the-”

“Yeah,” I interrupt, thinking about mom’s face when all the bills are paid. “With that.”

He cocks his head to the side, narrowing his eyes. “Whatchu’ talkin” bout, Willis?”

“No more playing around, Charlie. If you’re still up for it-” I cut myself off mid-sentence. In my head, I’m working through the permutations. There’s still a lot to do… but right now… all I have for him are two words: “I’m in.”

“So whatta we do now?” Charlie asks as he shuts the door to my office early Monday morning.

“Just what we talked about,” I say, pulling weekend work from my briefcase and dumping it on my desk. I’m moving at my typical frantic pace, rushing from desk to filing cabinet back to desk, but today…

“You’ve got some bounce in your step,” Charlie decides, suddenly excited. “And not just the hamster-on-a-treadmill thing you’ve usually got going.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, yeah I do.” He watches me carefully, consuming every move. “Arms swaying… shoulders rising… even under the suit – Yeah, brother. Let freedom ring.”

I grab the fax from Friday night and slide it in front of my computer. At noon today, the abandoned accounts have to be sent to the state or returned to their owners. That gives us three hours to steal three million dollars. Just as I’m about to start, I crack my knuckles.

“Don’t hesitate,” Charlie warns.

He’s worried I’ll talk myself out of it. I crack my knuckles one last time and start copying from the Duckworth fax.

“Now what’re you doing?” Charlie asks.

“Same thing our mystery person did – writing a fake letter that claims the money – but this one puts the cash in an account for us.”

Charlie nods and grins. “Y’know last night was a full moon,” he points out. “I bet that’s why they took it in the first place.”

“Can you please not get all creepy on me?”

“Don’t mock the moon,” Charlie warns. “You can bathe in all the left-brain logic you want, but when I was working that telemarketing job taking consumer complaints, we got seventy percent more calls on nights when the moon was full. No joking – that’s when all the crazies come out to dance.” He falls silent, but he can barely sit still. “So any new ideas on who the original thief was?”

“Actually, that was going to be my next…” Picking up the phone, I read the number from the Duckworth fax and start dialing. Before Charlie can even ask the question, I put the phone on speaker so he can hear.

“Directory Assistance,” a mechanized female voice says. “For what city?”

“Manhattan,” I say.

“What listing?”

I read from the fax. “Midland National Bank.” Where the thief wanted to transfer the money.