And here we were, the two of us, burn-out C students with soft brains and loud hearts, convinced we were clever enough to balance the scales by breaking into Mr. Murphy’s house, because a D on a science project felt like a life sentence and detention for chewing gum felt like tyranny, and this was supposed to be our last, best year of high school, not a slow suffocation under fluorescent lights, so here we were jimmying a first-floor window of his squat, one-story bungalow at the edge of town, the kind of place that smelled even from the yard like musty heat and resignation, stealing God-only-knew-what from a mediocre teacher who graded us like a judge, so Mikey went first, of course, sliding into the dark, and yanking me after him into a den that breathed out dust and mildew, orange shag carpet thick as algae, like Aunt Margot’s basement where time went to die, and my eyes snagged on a lamp glowing faintly in the next room, all brass curves and linen shade, the kind Mom circled in catalogs and showed Dad, hoping he’d buy it for her, and I lifted it, weighty and warm, thinking this is it, this is value, this is escape, but then a sound broke loose from the back of the house, a sharp, animal prayer, and we froze, stupid with choice, before easing down the hall to a door cracked like a held breath, where candlelight flickered and revealed an altar blooming out of nowhere, crosses and framed verses crowding the walls, and Mr. Murphy there in his white briefs, skin pale as milk, striking himself and murmuring scripture about sin and fire, and the two of us stood pinned to the floor, the lamp abandoned, the house suddenly enormous, holiness and terror pressed together so tight there was nothing more left to steal.