It’s past midnight when we get to the house. No cars in the driveway and the lawn is long. They send someone to cut the grass when they’re expecting guests.

Justin slams the car door too loud. My heart thuds like a bass line as we walk the path to the front door of the cottage. I’m surprised Justin can’t hear it.

If they’ve changed the code, I’ll have to make up a story. I know numbers for a house a few blocks over. I used to bounce between the two last year. But the other house looks totally different from this one. I can’t say I got confused. I don’t know what my story would be. We could sleep on the beach. It’s warm, at least.

I hold my breath. Squeeze my keychain flashlight so I can see. Press the buttons for 2-3-5-6 on the lockbox and then it opens and we have the key.

“Whose place is this?” he asks as I unlock the door and push it open.

“My uncle’s,” I say. My father had a brother, but he died in Vietnam. It’s easier if Justin doesn’t know that last summer I spent a few hours after dark with my flashlight, trying out combos until I got the right one. It wasn’t hard. Six of the ten buttons were worn and finger-grubby, so the code had only been changed maybe two or three times over years and years of use. The order doesn’t matter on punch code boxes. Just that you pick the right numbers.

Justin turns the lights on in the living room and I resist the urge to turn them off. Old wicker furniture with palm tree prints on the cushions. The air is stale and damp. There’s dust on the coffee table. Odds are with us for a night or two at least, but we’ll have to be careful and I don’t know how to tell Justin to be careful without explaining.

It’s probably okay. I know people who squat as if they’re legit, taking long showers, leaving the lights on. People around here don’t keep track. Most of them are only on vacation anyway, renting the house next door for a week or two. They don’t know who belongs where, or which houses are supposed to be vacant. Maybe I call more attention to myself when I try to go under the radar. Maybe Justin and I are safer being conspicuous.

We bring our clothes in. I leave my guitar in the car when I stay in houses like this. I never do it otherwise, but Justin doesn’t know me well enough to think it’s strange. It makes for a cleaner getaway if a getaway becomes necessary.

“Let’s walk over to the beach,” Justin says after we’ve thrown our stuff in the bedroom.