America: The neighbor's wife is so incredibly hospitable!

A hardware store had a batch of detonators and explosives stolen just two days ago; this is a serious case.

Although this is Montana, possession of explosives is still a federal felony.

Especially in those days when madmen liked to carry out all sorts of terrorist attacks for no reason.

"I don't really understand these things, sir," Chen said, feigning fear.

"I just... I just thought that thing looked dangerous. And yesterday those debt collectors were shouting something like 'If you don't pay back the money, we'll burn your house down.'"

"I'm afraid Tom might be having a momentary lapse of judgment, or he might be looking for revenge on society... You know, he's always felt that the government is the reason he went bankrupt."

This is the last fire.

Linking "possessing explosives" with "a desire for revenge" is enough to warrant the highest level of police attention.

Reynolds' face instantly turned ashen.

As a local law enforcement officer, what he fears most is that these desperate rednecks might launch suicide attacks.

"Where's that pit? Can you lead the way?" Reynolds asked as he quickly picked up the walkie-talkie.

"Dispatch center, order all patrol cars to stand by! Notify SWAT (Special Police Unit)..."

"Forget it, it's too late. Have everyone with guns assemble at Miller Farm!"

"It's in the woods behind my farm, under the biggest crooked pine tree."

Chen An seemed to be frightened by the police chief's reaction.

"Um... sir, I don't need to go, right? You know what would happen if Tom found out I was the one who snitched..."

"Alright, you don't need to go to the scene. For your safety, stay in town and don't move."

Reynolds picked up the shotgun on the wall. "If that thing is really there, kid, you've done a great job."

"Remember that bounty poster? It was five thousand dollars."

Chen An's eyes lit up: "Really five thousand?"

"If it's true, you'll get your money's worth! Now, get out of here, I need to get to work!"

Reynolds dashed out like a gust of wind.

Chen An slowly stood up and gave Reynolds a meaningful smile as he looked at his back.

"Good luck, Sheriff."

Since the sheriff told him to stay in town, Chen An naturally wanted to find a comfortable place to stay.

Ten minutes later, he reappeared in the kitchen of the "Aurora" restaurant.

"Why are you here again? Do you think this place is the cafeteria?"

Although Katie said that, she didn't stop arranging the food on the plate.

The corners of his mouth even involuntarily curved into a small smile.

"Delivering the goods. I mentioned the remaining eight pounds yesterday." Chen An placed the wicker basket on the table. "By the way... I'm here to seek refuge."

"Refuge?" Katie blinked her big eyes, her curiosity instantly piqued.

"What? You owe money to loan sharks? If so, for Mushroom's sake, I might lend you some... although I don't have much savings myself."

Chen An felt a warmth in his heart as he looked at the silver-haired little girl who had a sharp tongue but a kind heart.

"It wasn't me, it was the neighbor next door." Chen An sighed and sat down on a high stool.

"The police seem to be surrounding the area. I'm afraid of being hit by stray bullets, so I've come to seek refuge with the most beautiful and kindest Miss Katie."

"Police surrounding them?" Katie exclaimed, nearly spilling the parsley she was holding. "The Miller family, the ones who only know how to drink?"

"I can't say more about the details," Chen An said mysteriously, holding up one finger.

"However, don't be surprised if you hear any noise from over there later."

Katie wrinkled her nose as she looked at Chen An's calm and composed demeanor.

The woman's intuition told her that this wicked guy definitely knew the inside story, and might even be the one behind it all.

But this mysterious aura, tinged with danger, only made her more fascinated.

"Hmph, fine, don't talk about it then." Katie turned around and took a freshly baked soufflé out of the oven.

"That spot is empty, you can have it. It's a failed attempt, so it's free."

The soufflé was perfectly fluffy; it didn't look like a failure at all.

Chen An smiled and accepted the gift, saying, "Thank you for your hospitality."

He ate his dessert while looking out the window.

Judging by the time, Renault's team should have already stormed into Miller Farm.

What is Tom doing right now? Just woke up from a hangover? Or is he watching TV and cursing?

No matter what he's doing, he'll most likely spend the rest of his life behind bars.

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

Miller Farm.

The atmosphere was tense and ready to fight.

Four police cars, sirens blaring, surrounded the white wooden house in a fan shape.

Even the direction of the barn behind was guarded by two armed deputy sheriffs.

"Tom Miller! This is the Whitefish Police Department!"

Sheriff Reynolds, hiding behind the car door, shouted through a megaphone, "Drop your weapons! Hands up and get out here immediately!"

house.

Tom, who was clutching his splitting headache and looking for a drink of water, was stunned by the sudden commotion.

He peeked outside through the gap in the curtains, and his legs went weak, almost causing him to kneel on the ground.

"What happened? Did those debt collectors call the police?"

He frantically wandered around.

At that moment, the window on the second floor opened.

Sarah, holding her two terrified children, stood by the window and shouted at the police, "Don't shoot! The children are inside! It's me, Sarah!"

"Mrs. Sarah, get down with the children! Don't move!" Reynolds yelled, then ordered into the walkie-talkie, "Assault team, go in through the side door!"

"Bang!"

The flimsy wooden door was smashed open with a hammer.

Three fully armed police officers rushed in.

"Don't move! Hands up!"

Tom was still wandering around the living room like a headless fly.

Before he could even open his mouth to explain, two burly men pinned him to the ground, rubbing his face hard against the carpet.

"Ouch! That's my arm! You bunch of robbers! I only owed a little money, is it really that big of a deal?!" Tom howled like a pig being slaughtered.

"Owes money?" Reynolds strode in, sneering. "Tom, this isn't about money."

"Take him to the back mountain too! I want him to see with his own eyes that we're digging it up!"

Ten minutes later.

Right under the crooked pine tree that Chen An pointed out.

When the forensic team dug the box of red detonators and a bag of blasting explosives out of the ground.

Tom's face turned deathly pale as his hands were roasted, and even a wet patch appeared in his crotch.

"No...this isn't mine...this...this was left by George! I just dug it out to take a look!" Tom stammered, trying to explain.

"Oh? Then why are these plastic bags the newest type from our town's supermarket, which just came out last week?"

Reynolds patted the evidence bag, his eyes cold. "And although the surveillance footage from Old Harry's side doesn't show faces clearly."

"But that body type is a perfect match for your fat."

"Now add illegal burial... Tom, you have the right to remain silent, but you're doomed for life."

They illegally possessed highly dangerous explosives, stole them, and buried them near water sources and residential areas.

With this string of charges coming down on him, even God couldn't save him.

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

Two o'clock in the afternoon.

Chen An drove his beat-up pickup truck slowly back to the farm.

The cordon had not yet been removed, and most of the police cars had already left, leaving only one car conducting the final on-site investigation.

Tom has been taken away.