When I look again, Evil Twin Family is ascending the Chicago skyline, the Ferris wheel completely unharmed.

I push my aviators tight against my face and walk toward stroller parking.

The key is to keep moving. Look like I belong. Thirty-eight paces to the stroller, I grab the woman’s cell from the cup holder and make my way to the line for the Ferris wheel. I don’t look around. I don’t speed up. My heartbeat rings in my ears as I slide the phone inside my bag. I glance up, pretending to be awed by the Ferris wheel’s height. Evil Twin Family, in car eleven, has completed their first rotation.

It’s ten o’clock on a weekday. The line is short. I wave off the camera guy taking commemorative pictures. He nods without protest. It’s weird I’m here by myself. If he doesn’t take a picture of me standing in front of the green screen alone, he doesn’t have to feel sorry for me.

I snake my way through the ropes. The attendant points to a number. I walk across the aluminum platform and wait, trying to ignore the restless energy flowing through my arms.

When the doors open, I freeze. Evil Twin Family sits in the gondola I’m about to climb into. The kids scream—they don’t want to get off. Sweat dampens my forehead beneath my hat, matting my hair against my head. My aviators slide down my nose, but I refuse to push them back.

An attendant wearing a fleece jacket directs me in. Evil Twin Family still hasn’t exited. The dad scoops his daughter, who dangles boneless in his arms. The mom tugs on the son’s arm. He pulls back, trying to stay seated. The mom, with fiery-red hair and a Louis Vuitton tote sliding down her arm, looks at the attendant as if to ask if they can just stay.

I swallow hard. What if her phone rings? What if she has a distinct ringtone? She’ll hear. She’ll know I stole it.

“You need to exit, ma’am,” Gray Fleece Attendant says with a drawn-out Wisconsin accent.

I could kiss him.

The parents drag their kids out of the car just as the exit door closes. I rush to sit as Gray Fleece Attendant waves the couple behind me into the same car. The paunchy pair waddles in. My shoulders stiffen. The automated doors close. The air conditioning whirls on, and the wheel carries us upward.

“Oh, that was fast,” the woman says in a slow, shrill voice. She fans herself as if she’s overexerted herself.

I glance at Evil Twin Family below. They drop the girl, kicking her legs in circular motions, into the stroller and hurry away. They don’t seem to notice the missing cell.

Shoving my hat inside my bag, I grab the phone, plastered with the twins’ pictures on the case. They’d snapped so many shots along the pier, I was able to glimpse her password—a phishing technique I learned from Adam.