I hold the brick in my hand, feel its weight, the rough texture beneath my fingers.
Three, two, one …
I throw the brick as hard as I can through one of the smaller windows. The crash of the breaking glass is deafening in the silence of the sleepy street. Sol and I both freeze, still as stone, listening. But aside from the distant sound of a barking dog, which fades shortly, there are still no signs of life.
Imove up to the window. The pieces of shattered glass glitter on the floor inside, catching and refracting fragments of the light from the streetlamp. Behind me, Sol waits, still and silent as the night around us.
Carefully, I climb through the hole in the window, trying to avoid the jagged edges. The crunch beneath my feet as they land on the other side feels just as loud as the brick going through the glass moments ago. And each step somehow seems louder than the last.
So I move quickly, weaving my way through the aisles, throwing boxes and packets and cans into the bags. My heart is racing as I listen for the sirens I expect to start blaring down Maple Street at any moment. I tell myself that Sol will get me out before that happens. He won’t let them take me. And when this is done, we’ll be able to fill our bellies again.
That thought pushes me through. I return to the window with full bags and take two more from Sol so I can do it all over again.
Once all the bags have been filled, I climb back through the window, and we quietly make our way back to the truck. I’m much calmer now. Relieved and maybe even a little proud ofmyself. I’ve done it. My second trial is complete, and I’ve done something that will help our family. We won’t be hungry, and I won’t have to go anywhere.
We load the bags into the back seat of the truck, and I start to walk around to the passenger’s side, but Sol stops me.
“Wait. You’re not done.”
I watch, confused, as he reaches into the truck bed and pulls out a gasoline canister. “What’s going on?” I ask.
“That wasn’t your trial,” he explains before handing me the gas can. Then he pulls a matchbook from his pocket and passes that to me, too. “This is.”
I frown down at what he’s just handed me and then look back up at him. I’m so baffled that I almost laugh. “What am I supposed to do with this?”
Sol points in the direction we’ve just come from, back toward the grocery store. “Burn it.”
IRIS
“I… Sorry. You’re asking me to burn down the grocery store?”
I’m convinced I must be misunderstanding. This must be a joke. Or I’m too tired and hungry to comprehend the actual thing he’s asking me to do. In the darkness of this quiet side street, lit only by the full moon above, the whole thing feels weirdly dreamlike.
But Sol nods, confirming that this is real, that I’m not missing something. His eyes don’t leave my face, and I know he’s making note of every reaction I have.
“Butwhy?” I ask.
“The old man pays too much attention,” Sol says. “Even before he sent the police, I know he asked a lot of questions of Lily and Violet.”
“I think he’s just worried about us,” I say. “Yeah, he should mind his own business, but he doesn’t understand that we’re okay. He probably thinks he’s being kind.”
“Perhaps.But after the way he caught you stealing and then sent the cops to check in, his mild concern has become something bigger. Something that puts all of us—but especially you younger girls—in real danger. It’s more than just an annoyance now. It’s a problem. One that, I’m sorry to say, Iris, you’ve caused.”
Guilt curdles like sour milk in my stomach. I have no response to that.
He lowers his voice, softens it, lets it coil around me like a child’s security blanket. “I’m not asking you to hurt anyone, Iris. But we need him to focus on something else besides a few girls in his shop. This will do enough damage to keep him occupied and off our backs for a while.”
I try to say something—anything—but nothing comes out. My brain is too hazy and my body too weak from lack of food and sleep to form a reasonable argument.
Sol sighs. “I do find your reaction interesting,” he says, “considering what you’ve told me about your past. It’s not as if you’ve never committed an act of vandalism before. And the last time, there wasn’t even a good reason, was there?”
The comment, even delivered gently, feels like a slap across my face. A painful jab at a wound only he knows about. Because he knows everything about me.
I’venever committed arson before, but he’s right that the crimes of my past had no justifiable motive. They were for fun or to impress someone else. This would have a purpose, at least.
“What’s it supposed to teach me?” I ask quietly.
“Loyalty,” he says. “To prove to yourself—and to me—the lengths you’ll go to protect your family. Are you willing to let our garden be destroyed because some old, unenlightened man was ‘nice’ and poking his nose into our business? Will you pick him, a stranger, over us?”
