The Robin Hood of Pyongyang

Dear Jun-hyuk,

I read a book. A real one. Not from school. It was called Robin Hood and it was hidden between Algebra II and something about factory ventilation systems. I don't think it was supposed to be there. I don't think it was supposed to be read. But I did.

It took me WEEKS. The words were weird. Old. Some of them don’t even exist anymore, I think. But I understood enough.
He stole from the rich and gave to the poor.
And he had a band! A real band—not music, but people who helped. People who hid in trees and fought with sticks and arrows and WITS.

I look around our market and see aunties selling single eggs while Party wives walk away with ten chickens and don’t even blink. That’s not okay. That’s NOT okay.
So here’s my idea:

We start a band.
The Robin Hood of Pyongyang.
We take from the fat-pocketed, no-good dumpling hoarders, and we give to the ones who sleep under tarps behind the fish stall.
I know where the extra rations go. I’ve SEEN who pretends to “lose” the flour coupons. I’ve watched them long enough.

You’re good with plans, and fire. I’m good with knowing who to follow and who to fool. I’ve already got two kids who run fast and never talk. We’ll need a signal. Maybe a red ribbon on the third pipe behind the noodle stand.
Or a whistle. A crow call. We'll figure it out.

Write me back if you're in. Or just show up by the water pump at midnight on Thursday.
And bring something useful. Not explosive! (Okay maybe small explosive.)

For justice. For the egg-sellers. For everyone who never gets enough.

—Min-ho
(Robin Hood #1, until you earn a title)

P.S. I kept the book. You can read it after the mission. If you survive.