After three days, Robert’s food supply was dwindling. He ate the last DiGiorno with a side of cereal and washed it down with tap water. Tonight he’d have to go forage.
Beneath a densely cloudy sky he walked past empty house after empty house, but was hesitant to go so far as to break a window or bust down a door. He was hungry, but he wasn’t a burglar. At two a.m., on the next street over, Ocean Avenue, he found a garage door cracked open, hovering just a few inches off the cold cement. Robert peeked beneath it, into a dark cavern, silent except for a freezer’s hum. He eased the door up just enough that he could slink under it. A chest freezer hunched against the wall, but first he knelt and checked out the motorcycle parked a few feet away. Red chrome. Robert paced around it. He thought of the posters in Barry Lancaster’s office, back at his old school.
He opened the freezer. Chicken patties. Sheets of those cheap popsicles, the red and blue and purple flavors in plastic tubes. Steak-umms. Robert took a package of chicken patties. Six sandwiches would hold him for a couple days at least.
Back to the motorcycle. Robert ran his hand over the smooth seat. Was it gassed up? Where were the keys? Could he take it for a spin? Just zip down the street and bring it back?
He should go in the house. Who knew what else these people had?
Robert turned the knob, waiting for the lock’s catch, but it spun easily.
Did beach house decorations come in a kit or something? Same big, pearly conch shells, same sunset paintings, same wicker furniture. Robert’s eyes adjusted to the dark and he took in the open floor plan. Kitchen morphing into living room, tile meeting carpet.
Robert headed toward the kitchen cabinets, then stopped short. In the living room, a guy and a girl were snuggled on the couch, nestled under an afghan, her head cozied against his arm. The guy snored, mouth open. The girl’s hair was a blond tangle, hanging like soft, beckoning seaweed. Her big toe stuck out from the blanket’s edge, revealing chipped red polish.
Robert froze and wondered at his own stupidity. The door was unlocked because the owners were here. Of course. He crept backward, hands up like he had already been caught.
If these people were to open their eyes right now, who would they think he was? A prowler? A murderer? Robert wasn’t going to wait around to find out.
He tiptoed backward out of the room. The man shifted his legs and the girl sighed, nuzzling closer. Robert held his breath, mannequin-still. When the couple seemed settled again, he hustled for the garage door.
The only traces he left were wet footprints stomped across the garage and the missing chicken patties. That night, he would make sure he locked his doors.