He slips around the house, undone shoelaces slapping his ankles. The house is old bricks, the windows cloistered with drawn blinds. It’s harder to see back here, with a tall fence blocking the moonlight. But a woodpile sits under a small window – no security screens – and it whispers welcome.
Sam dumps his backpack on the grass and scales the woodpile, placing each foot and hand gingerly so he doesn’t end up underneath an avalanche of split logs. He’s sore enough as is, thanks. His hands trace the small bathroom window and for once he’s pleased he skipped out on the growth spurts regular fifteen-year-old boys encounter. He’s a year off for his age. Maybe two. Looking small and pathetic usually works to his advantage though, plus it turns tight windows and poky corners into opportunities.
Half balancing, half hugging the wall, Sam fiddles with the lock while the woodpile gives an ominous groan and shifts beneath him.
Things this family is good at: locking their house.
Things they suck at: stacking wood into a sturdy pile.
If this doesn’t work, he’ll have to—
‘You could always break it.’
Sam’s heart leaps about forty feet in the air – and unfortunately his feet follow. For a second he scrabbles to grip the wall, bricks ripping his fingertips, and then he loses balance and tumbles backwards. The lock picks go flying into the darkness.
At least there’s not far to fall.
At least the woodpile doesn’t tip over too.
At least, Sam thinks, still on his back and staring up at a silhouette smudged against the stars, it’s only his brother.
For a second Sam just lies there while the dewy grass soaks his back and he waits for his heart to migrate back down from his throat.
‘Dammit, Avery,’ Sam says.
‘I didn’t bring a hammer.’ Avery pulls his phone out of his pocket and flips the torch app on and shines it straight in Sam’s eyes. ‘But we could use a rock or, like, your head since it’s hard and ugly enough.’ He gives the tiniest breath of a laugh, but follows quickly with, ‘That was a joke. I was joking. You can tell it’s a joke, right?’
Sam wasn’t prepared for this tonight. Interruptions and complications and—
Avery.
And Avery wouldn’t show up unless—
‘Is something wrong?’ Sam says, shielding his eyes from the glare. ‘Are you hurt or in trouble or …’ His pulse quickens. ‘You’re OK?’
‘What?’ Avery blinks, confused. ‘Yeah, I’m fine.’
Sam didn’t realise, until the I’m fine comes, how tight his chest is. How shaky his hands suddenly are. He has to close his eyes a minute and fumble for a thin grip on calm. It’s fine. Avery’s fine. Sam scrambles up and snaps, ‘Turn that light off.’
He doesn’t mean to snap. It’s just that rush of panic for nothing.
‘You’re mad?’ Avery tries to hold the phone out of Sam’s reach, but it’s a wasted effort since he’s all elbows and sharp jawlines and a pointy elfish face like he skipped the effort of growing too, and Sam could just snatch it off him.
‘I’m about to be really mad.’ Sam’s teeth clench. ‘Turn it off or I’ll smack you into the middle of next week.’
Avery frowns but turns the light off.
Sam’s lost his night vision now. His ears strain, but doesn’t catch any movement or whispers. Or sirens. He’s not caught.
‘I could get you a phone.’ Avery rocks on his heels. ‘That would fix everything.’
Of course it would, Avery. A phone would fix the fact that Sam is a house thief in clothes he stole from a bin at a second-hand store, who needed a haircut months ago, with skin tight against his ribs like a tally of all the meals he’s missed.
His fingers curl into fists. Sticky with blood. It’s all bluff anyway because he’d never hit Avery. In fact it’s the opposite. Sam spends his life hitting the world and smoothing over the rusty corners so Avery won’t fall and hurt himself.
‘I wouldn’t need you to fix stuff,’ Sam says, the barest frustrated tremble in his voice, ‘if you’d stop ruining everything.’