“I like the drug-lord version,” Canary says, pulling the twins close to her.

Everyone lies nestled close together. Cinnamon and Anne lie looking out the window, watching the sky darken. Stars are blinking on in a clear sky.

Soon they all are sleeping like corpses. Warm air is their blanket. Smells of prairie. Dirt, brush, wood rot. Anne dreams of wildflowers. Acres and acres of them. Running through tall grass with Cinnamon. Picking the long stems of dandelion, blowing on them. Watching smiles float from the petals. Holding hands with Cinnamon. Until headlights flash through windows. Anne watches as cars kick up loose gravel, heading up the driveway to the mansion.

Turning to the others, hands reach, touch, and wake Cinnamon. Rustling movement. “We got company.”

Trot yawns. “Shit. I was sleeping so good.”

Everyone rolls up their bedding, throws everything back into their packs. Anne and Cinnamon peek down below, watching the movements. It’s the cops.

Cinnamon whispers, “Someone must’ve seen us coming in. We gotta scoot. They’ll lock all our asses up.”

Below them, someone is using a crowbar to pry the front door. The sound of feet entering. Flashlights pierce the darkness below.

“We wait. See what direction they take. Then we go straight through this area here. There’s a room with a patio out a window.”

High ceilings jump with flashlit shadows. Canary keeps her hands over the twins’ mouths. The lights move on, and Anne and the others sneak to the other room. Looking for their escape—the window that leads to the patio. They must evade the police bumping about and walking from room to room below them. Shining their lights.

“I don’t see shit.”

“Me neither.”

“Probably someone drunk seeing shit.”

“Yeah, got nothing better to do than call the fucking police.”

One of the twins sneezes.

“You hear that?”

“Yeah, spoke too soon. It’s upstairs.”

Rustle of feet.

Young hands pull at the boards blocking exit through the window. The twins are whimpering. Canary tries to keep them silent. “It’s okay,” she whispers. Feet climb and the lights flash.

“They’re at the top of the stairs,” Trot says.

Nerves are shivers and shakes. Adrenaline. Rushing heartbeats.

Fingers, tugging frantically, finally break a board loose.

“Over there. I hear movement.”

Trot has a one-by-six board in his hands. Anne has pried loose another. “Go!” she whispers to Cinnamon and Canary. “We’ll be right behind you.”

Cinnamon’s eyes are burning with the word “No!”

Flashlight beams dance and shadows shift. A radio crackles with static, then barks in a loud voice.

“I see someone.”

“Stay where you’re at!” a voice demands.

Standing beside the doorway, Anne swings edgewise at the back of the cop’s knees.

“Go!” She screams.

The cop drops forward. “Shit!”

Behind him comes another. Trot swings through the dark. The cop’s light falls to the floor, rolls. Then Anne swings, and he takes a board to the face.