The two boys dismount from their bikes. No glass is visible from where they stand.

“Let’s go around,” Jemaal says.

They cross the road, get on their bikes again, and cycle slowly up the block and around the church. There are small windows on the side, but the prospect is disappointing and anticlimactic.

Ah! There, in the back—a large wheel window with amber glass set high up on the wall, probably directly overlooking the altar. But, they won’t be able to take a good shot at it from the road—they will have to aim from the lawn, directly beneath the window.

“I’ll keep watch,” Jemaal says.

Arshad crouches behind the trunk of an oak tree, ready to sprint, a rock in each hand, looking back occasionally at Jemaal standing by the street corner to get a better view of the roads, which have a constant trickle of cars speeding by. Arshad’s bike is leaning against the tree, but he still has his backpack on—he’s worried removing it may delay the getaway.

Twice Jemaal says, “Now!” But both times Arshad’s feet refuse to cooperate.

“You have to do it as soon as I give the signal,” Jemaal says.

He offers to take Arshad’s place, but no—Arshad steels himself—he will see this through.

“Now!”

He’s running, the rocks heavy in his clenched hands, the straps of his backpack pulling down on his shoulders. He’s out of the shadows of the oak trees, cutting diagonally across the lawn.

The green of the lawn is a blur, the white of the walls flash past in his peripheral vision, the amber disk of the window hangs suspended like a full orange moon. He’s aware of little else—not his pounding heart, nor his pounding steps, nor his dark little shadow scurrying just half a step ahead of him. His right arm is already swinging, but he knows his physics: he’ll impart a velocity in an unwanted direction if he doesn’t come to a complete halt before he takes a shot.

He digs his heels in, pivots toward the window, winds his torso, and releases. The rock leaves his hand and sings through the air. He doesn’t wait to see if it has found its mark, he’s immediately preparing the other projectile: wind and release again.

Alas! He’s not ambidextrous. Even as the second rock leaves his left hand, he knows it’s going to fall short—the thrust is simply insufficient. But he’s already running back now, with hardly a sideways glance. He knows by the crack and clatter of falling glass that at least his first missile has been successful. He fumbles with his bike and leaps onto it.

Whir go the wheels, whir goes the gray of the road beneath him—relief, then exhilaration, surging through him. Swoosh goes the exhilarating air. He’s vaguely aware of Jemaal’s bike nosing his, the splotches of sunlight dancing over him, the blazing disk of the sun as he emerges momentarily between trees.