It’s a five-minute trek from the school to Irene’s apartment. The front of the building is lit up nice like it’s an architectural gem, even though the paint is peeling and someone spray-painted WWJD in yellow on the front step. I sneak around the back of the building to stay in the shadows, and get a splinter climbing the rickety wood fire escape. The sliver is thick and grey, stuck right in my palm. When I yank it out, the blood forms a tiny red pearl. I wipe it on my jeans.

It’s easy to get in. Irene leaves the window in the boy’s room open just a crack. He’s got croup or asthma or something like that and always needs fresh air. Waste of heat, if you ask me.

His room is painted dark blue and he has a red bunk bed with yellow stars all over it. I bet my dad built that bed for the boy. His blankets look so much warmer than mine. I take his sheet, just in case, wrapping it around my arm to keep it from trailing.

There’s a Tupperware container of leftover Hamburger Helper in the fridge like it’s just waiting to be my road trip food. I take that, one of Irene’s forks from her good silverware set, and a half-eaten package of Chips Ahoy! for dessert.

By the door, hanging from a wooden rack painted with the words Bless Our Happy Home, is a row of keys. The boy’s house key hangs from a blue and yellow lanyard, next to the one for the mailbox on a paper clip, which is next to Irene’s praying angel keychain. I use the boy’s key to pry open the angel’s ring and circle Mrs. Ivory’s car key around until it slides off.

I turn the knob on the front door to lock behind me so maybe it’ll take them a while to figure out anything even happened. I’m careful to close the door slowly, but the click of the latch sounds like a gunshot in my head. Everything is always louder when you’re trying to be quiet. I spin a story about Irene asking me to take her car to pick up the boy and babysit for him after the concert so she and my dad can go out, but no one stops me on my way across the parking lot.