Sometimes we’re not after money. Every now and then we just like to mess with people’s minds. We scout a house and it has to be a nice one, with decor, someplace where the people who live there care about how things look. Then we come back a few times to get a line on their routine, and when we’re sure they’re out we slip inside. We pick the nicest piece of upholstered furniture. A big chair is best. Irene uses her box cutter to slash the seat cushion. Just once. And we don’t leave any other disruption. We don’t take anything. They find the slash whenever they do. It might be a day later. It’s violence without a point or a victim or a context. We like imagining it creeping them out for a long time.

mulberry street

At least the middle seat is empty. Cate has the window. On the aisle is a thirtyish guy wearing shorts, an old Radiohead sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off, flip-flops. Flip-flops are his first choice in winter travel footwear. For December, on a flight between Chicago and New York. His toenails are thick and yellowed; his knees are hairy; one has a surgical scar across it. Cate has noticed more of these overexposed people on planes lately, like they were watching TV then went to take the garbage out to the alley then suddenly realized—whoa!—they had a plane to catch. Cate waits until he finishes reading the SkyMall catalog and settles into dozing. Then she bends as though she’s taking off her shoes, and with her phone takes a close-up of his toes. She’ll shoot this to Neale once she’s off the plane.