With a dramatic sigh, Penny slammed the door. The echo rattled through the narrow hallway, shaking dust from the picture frames. She leaned against the wood, cheeks flushed, fists clenched. For the hundredth time this month, her brother had stolen the last piece of her chocolate stash, and for the hundredth time, he’d grinned like it was some grand joke.
But this time, Penny wasn’t going to let it go.
She marched into her room and opened the old chest beneath her bed. Inside lay a jumble of half-finished inventions—her “revenge projects,” as she liked to call them. Springs, wires, and bits of cardboard gleamed in the lamplight. She pulled out the crown jewel: a remote-controlled cookie jar fitted with an alarm loud enough to wake the neighborhood.
By midnight, the trap was set in the kitchen. Penny crouched behind the counter, remote in hand, heart thumping with mischievous glee. Sure enough, soft footsteps padded across the tiles. Her brother reached for the jar.
The alarm blared. Lights flickered. He yelped and tumbled backward, eyes wide with shock.
Penny smirked in triumph. “Steal my chocolate again,” she whispered, “and the next invention has lasers.”
Therapy Bits 
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