A fishing pole was leaning by the back door. I didn’t want to be inside anymore, even if there might be people outside who knew I didn’t belong there, so I grabbed it, went out, then sat on the edge of the dock. I dipped my feet into the cool green water. I couldn’t see much beyond my white toes, but I knew the water was really deep. There were a number of cottages spaced around the lake. Docks stuck out here and there. Other rowboats tied up, red and green. A bright yellow paddleboat. What appeared to be buckets and rubber boots. No one was around, though, except for a single person gliding in a red canoe far, far away.

I wiggled my toes, counted up the hours. I guessed at the time, figuring Carl and I had been together for forty-three or forty-four hours. Not even two whole days. It felt so much longer, like I’d been away from home for weeks. I wondered what Maisy and Gloria were doing at home. Were they having dinner, or maybe throwing the Frisbee for Chicken? Did they miss me? Were they worried? Would Chicken spin in circles when I made it home?

I pulled out some line and let the hook drop into the water. I didn’t know how to throw it further out where the fish were jumping, making bubbles. Casting, I thought it was called, but maybe I could catch something near the dock. If it was big enough, I could cut off the head and scrape out the intestines and fry it in a pan. Carl and I could share it. A meal might make him feel better.

I closed my eyes, and for a moment I forgot that Carl and I were criminals. Thieves, like my sign said, but now plural. Instead I thought about Telly and Dian, what they’d been talking about when I went to the garage to see him. A cottage vacation in the fall. I remembered how excitement shot through me when I imagined Maisy and I going along. Our first actual vacation. The leaves would be turning color. The air would smell sweet and sharp with wood smoke. We’d build puzzles and drink cherry soda until our lips were stained. At the time, I’d really believed that was possible. Until Telly told me to stop coming around. Even though I only came around once.

The sound of dribbling water made me open my eyes. The man in the red canoe was coming closer, silently, except for drips from his paddle when he lifted it. When he was almost beside me he held his oar in the water and the canoe slowed. He was old and tanned, wearing a clean white T-shirt, a wide beige hat with a string hanging down the back. “Quiet evening, hey?” he said.

I swallowed, pushed the hair out of my eyes. “Yeah. Quiet.”

“You friends of Bertie’s?”