I sit in back, my fingers in Greta’s fur, because Tomas will not let me sit up front any longer. Greta can feel the nervousness in my hands. Beneath my feet lies the tire iron; I am to use it on Eddy Ho’s yellow Wrangler. I try to keep my trembling hands calm in her warm fur and concentrate on the cars we pass. They are parked close together, sometimes one behind another, so I have to strain my head to get an angle around the rear vehicle. Often, all I can make out is a glimpse, barely enough to let me know the color of its paint. Beside me, Greta breathes rapidly.

I try not to say anything, but feel sick. I open my window for air, but poke my head out so Tomas will think I am just getting a better view. Our mother thinks he has taken me to a movie. She did not ask me about it. She does not ask me about much anymore. Like always, it is best not to think about how she would feel if we got caught. The first time I went on one of these outings I shook real bad, but after the time we nearly got caught in Bel Air it hit me that she would have found out, and my stomach started twisting up even worse. Each time it gets sharper, and the last couple of times I vomited on the truck’s carpet. He got mad and ran a broken beer bottle across my skin. He made me pull off my shirt so he could do it on my chest where our mother would not see the damage he did to my nipple. The scabs are long and thin and hardened, and resemble the course of a dirty teardrop. I force myself not to pick at them. But each time Mom comes home or I start worrying we will get caught and she will find out, I get anxious and catch myself scratching at it through my shirt. When I undress at night flakes fall loose onto my white bedsheets.

Do we really have to do this? I finally say.

He hits the brake and slows. I jerk forward and steady myself and he turns to me. I can’t believe you have the nerve to ask me that, Junior.

I make a point of concentrating on the parked cars we drift past. My hand rests on Greta’s warm neck.

Sorry.

Man, I can’t believe you.

I said I’m sorry.

He shakes his head and speeds up again. At this rate you’re gonna still owe me when you’re an old man.

The cool air feels blustery in my face and hair. I’m just worried about how Mom would feel if we got caught, I say.

You thought about her feelings real hard when you took away Buster.

I told you I would steal her back for you.