Miata’s father revved the truck’s engine, shifted into first gear, and slowly entered the unlocked gate. Bluish smoke coughed from the tailpipe.

The man in the checkered shirt locked the gate behind him. “That one over there,” he bellowed. He pointed to the bus where Miata and Ana cowered.

Miata gripped her skirt and library books. Ana gripped Miata’s hand in prayer. They tiptoed to the front of the bus, where they were out of sight.

The truck sounded like a tank as it moved toward the bus. Miata’s father turned off its engine. The door opened with a squeak and then slammed closed. Heavy footsteps crunched against the gravel.

“What are they doing here?” Ana asked, biting a knuckle.

“I don’t know,” Miata answered. “Let me see.” She peeked from behind the fender. Her father was putting on his heavy work gloves. The other man was tapping a flashlight against his thigh.

“Do you think we should surrender?” Ana asked. “They’re going to find us.”

Miata shook her head and pulled on Ana. They hurried to the far end of the parking lot and hid behind a row of big oil drums. They watched the men unload welding equipment from the truck. Miata’s father looked under the bus.

The man in the checkered shirt said, “Looks like someone was monkeying around here.” He looked about the yard and kicked the loose gravel. A pebble ticked against one of the oil drums.

“He knows we’re here,” Ana whispered. Her small shoulders twitched like wings.

“They can’t see us,” Miata whispered back.

Miata’s father popped the welder. A blue flame shot out. He adjusted the flame, lowered his goggles, and crawled under the bus. The bus was old and squeaky when it bounced on the road, and the frame was cracked from the weight of kids and time. A few sparks kicked against the ground.

“I’m scared of that noise,” Ana whined. She pressed her hands to her ears. A single tear crawled down her cheek.

“Don’t cry,” Miata said. She held hands with Ana, who wiped away the tear.

Miata thought about that morning’s breakfast. She remembered how her father had talked about a small job. Her father was always doing small jobs. He would weld broken bicycles, tractors, trailers, and farm equipment. He welded on Saturday, his day off.

“We’ll wait until Dad’s finished,” Miata told Ana. “It won’t be long.”

They spread the skirt on the ground. The two of them sat on it, hugging their knees. The two friends had a history of experiencing similar trouble. They had both locked themselves out of their houses. They had both climbed trees and couldn’t get down. They had both played with matches and burned their fingers. And they hadn’t told anyone but each other.

But hiding from grown-ups in a parking lot was something new. They were both ready to cry, when they heard a slurping sound behind them.

They looked up through moist eyes. At the fence was Rodolfo. He was sipping a Coke through a straw. His hair was combed, his cheeks red as cinnamon red hots. He was on his bike and clinging to the fence.

“What are you guys doing?” he asked calmly. His slurping was nearly as loud as the welding. He let out a polite burp.

Miata and Ana were shocked to see him. “We’re hiding,” Miata whispered. “Be quiet.”

“How come?” he asked. “You guys playing a game? Can I play?”

“No, we’re not playing a game,” Miata whispered angrily.

“We’re in trouble because of you!” Ana snapped. “If you had left Miata alone, she wouldn’t have forgotten her skirt on the bus.”

“That’s why you’re hiding?” he asked. Rodolfo thought for a moment, then he suggested, “Why don’t you crawl out here?” He pointed to a hole in the fence partially hidden by yellowish weeds.

Miata and Ana looked at each other. Their eyes were big with hope. They got to their feet.

Miata peeked over at her father and the man in the checkered shirt, who was unloading a heavy toolbox from the truck.

“You first,” Miata said, turning to Ana. “I’ll take your library books, and you take the skirt.”

“I’m scared,” Ana said.

“Don’t be,” Rodolfo said. “I’ll give you some of my soda if you do it.”

“I don’t want any of your soda,” Ana said. She sneered at Rodolfo. “I have plenty at home.”

Ana breathed in deeply three times. Then she dashed for the hole, leaping over a stack of lumber. Miata followed closely, library books tucked under her arm like a football.

They heard someone shout, “Hey.” It was the man in the checkered shirt. He dropped the toolbox and scattered the tools. The man cursed under his breath. He had dropped a heavy wrench on his big toe.

“Stop, you kids,” he hollered.

But Miata and Ana didn’t stop. They scrambled through the hole and didn’t look back. They raced up the street alongside the shadow of Rodolfo’s bike.