There aren’t any people here, but there is an unhitched semitrailer parked between the two warehouses. It’s dark, but I can see weeds growing up around the wheels—the trailer has been here a while. I go around the trailer and scan the side of the warehouse. No doors or other entrances, just a brick wall with a single drainpipe running down from the roof. Not a single fire door? That’s got to be some kind of OSHA violation. I cinch the shotgun sling tight, then approach the trailer. It’s basically a big metal box with a pair of hinged doors at the back. As quietly as I can, I climb up the back, using the door hinges as steps. I skin one knuckle but I make it to the top. I glance toward the back of the warehouse, see no sign of a curious guard, and turn my attention to the warehouse. There’s maybe three feet between the trailer and the warehouse wall. There’s a rise in the ground here, so standing on top of the trailer, I’m not quite at eye level with the warehouse roof. Three feet horizontal distance, two feet vertical. Maybe two-and-a-half.

I hope the gutter holds.

I back up to the far end of the trailer, which now looks far too narrow, take a couple of deep breaths, and run toward the warehouse. On the second step, my foot strikes the top of the trailer too hard with a dull, echoing thud. On the third and last step I leap, arms outstretched, fingers extended like claws. My hands hit the gutter less than half a second before my legs swing forward from the momentum and my feet and one knee strike the brick wall. A sharp pain spikes through my leg, like someone kicked me in the kneecap, followed by a numbness. I ignore it and cling to the gutter, twenty or so feet off the ground. My arms and shoulders burn from the strain. No flashlight stabs through the darkness to sweep the wall, but I made too much noise. Someone will come check. Gritting my teeth, I try to swing my left leg up to the roof. On the third try I’m able to pull myself up enough to get the leg up onto the roof, and then I roll over the edge and lie on the flat rooftop, gasping for air. The stars above look down. I stare back, trying to slow my breathing. I’m lying on top of my shotgun, which presses painfully against my back, but I just need a minute.