by Alex Simms Samuel Oakes I’d stolen one hundred dollars from Mom’s purse yesterday evening. Her purse sat there in the dark, underneath the dining room table, like an encased artifact in a museum at night. I flicked the fringe on its sides, expecting it to tingle and clamor throughout the house. I positioned my arm like a crane and reeled my hand down to fish around the inside. I took whatever first felt like money — thinner than a credit card but not as noisy as receipt pa