I have seen Tomas do this before. He always swings at the front window real quick, so it will smash on the first try, then he gets in and out and we are back in his truck. Alarms do not faze him.

Something rubs against my leg. I jump, but it is only Greta’s warm face pushing against my jeans.

Hey, girl, I whisper to her.

Though she seems glad to be near me again, her panting is not as eager as usual. Her eyes are focused, still and alert.

I tell her to stay, and grip the iron tighter, lifting it behind me, pausing, then swing it forward against the glass.

It thumps off and falls from my hand and clatters against the concrete. I freeze—ready for the alarm—but its blaring never comes. Greta starts rapidly pacing, her ears perked. I avoid looking over at Tomas as I bend over to pick up the rod. My trembling fingers, in their hurry, miss it. My nails graze the concrete and it takes me a moment to get a firm hold and finally lift it again. I try to keep calm and not allow Greta to become too excited, but she spots a dog hurrying along the alleyway and goes off sniffing and disappears. I glance at the apartment door, wondering if I should give this up. But with my brother waiting I lift the tire iron to chest level and get ready and decide I have to do it now.

I swing harder. The impact vibrates my bones, but the glass only cracks.

I take it back—in two hands like a baseball bat—and swing again, and this time a few pieces of glass crumble and fall inward. I knock enough glass in to reach through and open the lock.

I find the stash in the glove compartment where Tomas said it would be. I cannot believe it. It does not seem like it should be so easy. I am so relieved I barely bother to unwrap the foil to make sure I have got it, then crumple it shut as I back out.

When I look up the apartment door is open.