A path of round stones led from the shores of Moon lake to a shed made of corrugated metal. Tara looked around to see if anyone was watching, then slid around to the side entrance.

Inside the shed she found a middle-aged man sleeping on a tattered rug. A dozen empty cans of Old Milwaukee beer lay at his feet, and a wad of crumpled dollar bills and loose change were by his side. He wore a dirt-stained Chicago Bulls sweatshirt and the bill of his red and blue Cubs ball cap covered his eyes.

Without hesitation, she grabbed the money, stuffed it into her purse, and looked down at the older man. He was snoring so loud the metal siding of the shed rattled with each breath.

She pulled the gun out of her purse, pointed it at him and scowled. “Get up!” she screamed.

She kicked him hard in the side, and said, “I mean it, you drunk bastard! Get up now or you’ll die!”

He rolled over, rose to his knees, and fumbled with the now cockeyed ball cap atop his head. “Who in the name of God are you?” he asked.