TRAVIS OAKES

Travis Oakes is nineteen, youngest of eight, and has never gotten what he asked for at Christmas. By the eighth kid, Santa's just dumping whatever's left in the damn sack. This year Travis figured he'd handle distribution himself.

At 4 a.m. they found him on Walmart's roof in a Santa suit he'd shoplifted from that same Walmart Wednesday, halfway into an HVAC duct. He didn't think it was a chimney. Give the boy that much. He thought it went to Electronics.

It went to the deli. Hell of a place to shop for a stereo.

He'd left a note on his Cavalier's windshield: “Gone to work. -T.” Deputy Hargrove considered that a confession. Around here a boy finally shows some initiative and the paperwork eats his ass.

Dwight took the Polaroid at the fingerprint shelf. Striped shirt, forearm on the counter, calm as a fellow waiting on biscuits. Underneath you can see the boot of another guy, asleep, been there since two. God love Travis, he looks willing to wait his turn.

The suit's in evidence. Walmart wants it back. There's a mayonnaise situation. Nobody wants to explain that shit to the returns lady.