The man who tried to take Irna’s stock book landed in a bin of blunt rivets.
Iven had been careful about the blunt part.
Sharp scrap stood in the next bin. The difference mattered when a body went into it shoulder first, scattering little iron cylinders across the workshop floor.
“Stay,” Iven told him.
The man tried to rise.
Iven put one boot on the bin’s outer rail and looked at him until he reconsidered.
Across the yard, someone fired a warning shot into the roof.
No one who worked at Irna’s shop mistook the warning for a favor.
