This wasn’t where I wanted to be. I didn’t expect the owners to actually follow me. I hear their feet pounding behind me, when I duck beneath the stairs. I stare up at the gray dirty walls as I listen.



“Ay, where’d she go? I swear if that rat steals from me again…” the man muttered to his friend.



“She’s gone now, it’s no use. Besides the kid has to eat sometime,” the friend replies.



“Eat? Don’t talk to me about eating! I have five kids to feed at home!” the man roars, and with one last glance around, the two men walk away. Guilt swirls up inside me as I look down at my dirty hands clutching the loaf of bread. But soon the pain of hunger takes over, and I break off a tiny piece and begin to eat. The rough bread tastes days old, and yet this is the best food I’ve had in days. I shove the rest into my pocket to save for the group. I slowly get up, and with the sun setting behind me, I begin to run home.



“Hey, where you been all day? “ my friend, Joey, asks. Joey’s the smallest kid I know, but also the toughest. Once the war started, and we found out we were going to get sent to work in factories, it was his idea to run away. The factories were death machines, due to all the chemicals and hard labor, and combined with barely getting any food, you were gone in a couple of months. And then the government just brings in new kids to replace you. Nobody has ever heard anything good about the factories, so we figured anything was better than that. So Joey, Ross, Kate, and I took off, and we’ve been doing all right for the past few months.



“Getting us food,” I reply, holding up my trophy. Just then Kate and Ross walk in with other scraps of food.



“Well aren’t we feasting tonight,” Ross smirks. We all settle down in the shed we’ve been hiding out in. We move from place to place every few weeks to avoid being caught. There are enough runaways and homeless people on the streets nowadays to keep the police busy. As long as you stay hidden at night, you’re fine.
****


I walk down Garnet Avenue, home to some of the richest people in the city, peering into windows. I’ve never been down this street, as just being a kid in ratty clothes walking around here looks suspicious. However I’m full from last night, and it’d be nice to have something to sell, so I’m looking for a house with a family that is dumb enough to keep their windows open. I finally find one, and it’s the biggest house on the street. It’s pale yellow and is covered in windows. With a quick glance around, I jump up onto the porch railing and pull myself through the window. I fall onto the most hideous patterned rug I’ve ever seen. I look around, and it appears I have fallen into the library. Everywhere there are stacks and stacks of books. Immediately my father comes to mind, as he used to always read to me before he was drafted. My fingers trail across the backs of the books, and dust coats my fingers. Rich people! They never use anything they own. I shake my head as I think of the unfairness of life. I walk out of the library, with a promise to steal a book later for myself. First I need to find something valuable and I won’t be able to get any money for a book. I turn the corner and I find myself in a blue bedroom. It appears to be a boy’s, but it is too pressed and clean for it to have been lived in recently. There is a dust covering on everything, and I’m careful to not leave fingerprints. There are photographs everywhere, and soon the boy whose room this must be comes to life before me. I see him change from a scruffy haired toddler to a man in a pilot’s uniform. He is laughing in almost all the pictures. I feel a hint of rage and jealousy towards this boy, with this perfect life. He comes from a wealthy nice family, and just by looking around the room, I can tell how much he is loved. Clump, clump, clump. I hear footsteps up the stairwell, and I quickly dive into the closet. The footsteps get closer and closer. My heart is in my throat, and I know I’m going to get caught just by how loud my heartbeat is. I hear the springs of the bed squeak, as somebody sits down, and then I notice the sniffling. Through the cracks of the door, I see a hunched woman crying. Although she is dressed elegantly, I notice her fingernails, which are cracked, pointy, and dirty. They leave smudges on a photo, which she is hugging. What does a rich lady have to cry about? Rage flows through me as I am forced to watch this woman cry to herself about whatever trivial troubles she has in her wealthy life. Does she have to worry if she will ever eat again? Or if she will get caught by the police and thrown in a factory forced to work to death? No no no. After an hour or so she leaves the room. I’m consumed by the need to keep exploring the house but I know need to leave now if I want to make it back before dark. And so I leave, knowing I will be back because this woman, with a perfect life who cries over petty things, deserves to be stolen from.
I find my way back home just as it begins to pour. Nobody has had any luck with food or things to sell, and so with my stomach now growling, my mind drifts back to the room full of books, and how my life used to be before I became a thief. How I used to live in a cozy apartment with my father, who taught me how to read. He was a teacher, before the government decided he’d be more useful as a soldier. My father would die just a few months after leaving, and I would end up in the Rose Orphanage, where I met Joey and the others. My thoughts begin to drift apart as I listen to the rain crash onto our tiny shed.
****
The next day, I find my way back to the yellow house. I jump through the same window, which was conveniently still open. I fall onto a puddle on the floor. The ugly rug is now soaked, all its colors running together to make the most miserable brown color. A beautiful house like this and the woman couldn’t be bothered to close a window? I move through the room, once again in awe at the amount of books. My fingers dance from book to book, unsure of which one to take home. At last, they stop on a book the same color as the blue room upstairs. With the book in my hand, I look for the kitchen. As exciting as I may find the book, I know it won’t quell the gnawing I feel in my stomach. I walk down the hall, studying the numerous pictures on the walls. So many different faces appear, but I have yet to see the crying lady appear in one. I find myself soon in the biggest room I’ve ever seen. Machines and appliances I didn’t know existed are stuffed into the room. I begin to scavenge through the pantry, seeing unknown foods, ripe with color. Everywhere I look there is food. Boxes of cookies, jars of jam, slabs of meat! My hands shaking in excitement, the book drops to the floor. I can’t help myself, and I begin to stuff everything my fingers touch into my mouth. I’m so consumed by this need to eat that I don’t hear the shuffling behind me.
“What do you think you’re doing? Who are you? ” the crying woman shouts. Even in her anger, I can see her muddy eyes watering. Her hair is silver, and the sun highlights it, making it glisten as brightly as the appliances in the kitchen. Her hair contrasts with her skin, which is spotted and dark, as if she had spent too much time in the sun.
“I... I’m sorry,” I stutter. I have the decency to feel shame, for I have never been caught stealing. I feel her staring at me, taking in my tattered clothing, speckled with mud and grime. Lastly, her eyes fall upon the blue book lying on the floor.
“That was my son’s favorite book as a child!” she begins to wail. She falls to the ground, and begins to cry hysterically.
“Oh, oh it’s alright. He can read it when he gets back from the war, “ I mumble, remembering the pictures of the man in a uniform. My hands awkwardly pat her back, in an attempt to comfort her.
“No! No, he is gone. Gone,” she whispers. I sink to the ground beside her and listen as she begins her story.
****


My feet hit the pavement, as I dart through the streets. My arms ache from the large bag I carry with food and a certain blue book. I recall the story the woman had told me. Her son, Tim, had gone off to war five years ago. He had been a very promising pilot; he was bright, popular, and athletic. He was the apple of both his parents’ eyes. However during an attack, his plane had been shot down in enemy territory, and has yet to be heard from. Driven to madness from waiting, her husband committed suicide the following year. And now the woman waits all alone, in the big empty house, passing the time.
I burst into the shed, “ Look what I got!” I yell.
“Holy… where did all this food come from?” Joey exclaims. Shock covers their faces.
“I made a friend,” I reply. They are too busy stuffing food into their faces to respond. And so to end a perfect day, I open up the blue book, which the lady had given me once I revealed my story to her. “Once upon a time…” I begin with a laugh.
****


I continue to visit the yellow house often, stopping in to gather food and check up on the lady. It was odd, as some days she was nowhere to be found, even though all the cars were parked in the garage. Usually, I would just take what I needed and be on my way, but it had been a while since I’d seen the woman, so today, I decided to wait. I wait for hours. I am curled up in the library reading, when I hear the clanging of keys. I run to the door, and stop mid-step. Standing before me is not the woman, but rather, a tall man. His blonde hair is slicked back, and he is wearing a dark suit with a silk tie.


“Tim! Tim, you’re alive! Oh!” I shriek as I dive into his arms. I look up at him, and while this is certainly the man from the pictures in the blue room, this is not a man who has just come from war.


“AH. Who are you? What are you doing in my house?” he demands as he shoves me away. He looks at his hands as if expecting to find dirt.
“I’m a friend of your mom’s, Tim,” I say, and suddenly I’m unsure of everything.


“My mother? She died twenty years ago in a car crash along with my dad. And my name is Jack,” he stares at me.
I feel as if I am falling. “No, no, no! You’re wrong!” I scream, although all the pieces are falling into place. The window always being open, the woman not being in any of the pictures, the woman’s dirty fingers and skin.


“Get out,” he bellows. And I begin to run.
****


Months have passed, the war has ended, and life has continued. I, along with my friends have found jobs. No matter how hard I try though, I can’t bring myself to part with the blue book. I take it everywhere with me, just as a reminder of how my life used to be. I stroll through the city, watching people mindlessly. Children run in the streets yelling amongst each other while old men bargain over useless items in the courtyard. It’s a windy day, and trash is flying through the streets. A woman’s gray hair flutters through the wind, sparkling in the sun. I squint, not quite believing who it could be. I sprint, a hint of hope beginning to spark.

“Ma'am!” I call as I catch up to the woman. Muddy eyes, which I haven’t seen in months, peer back at me.

“Have you seen my son? He’s just a boy. Just a boy,” she babbles to herself. She is dressed in rags, and streaks of grime stain her face.

“Do you remember me?” I beg.

She gives me a broken smile and says, “My boy. My boy. He’s in the sky.” I slowly reach into my bag and grasp the blue book. Its pages are frayed from being turned far too often, and stains cover the entirety of it. She hugs the book to her chest, as tears gather in her eyes and she continues to mutter to herself. I give her one last look before walking away.