Things We Didn't Steal

The cold in Lockport was a living thing. It didn't just sit on the skin; it seeped into the bricks of the triple-decker tenements below the locks, turned the breath of the Mroz family's ancient radiator into a weak, asthmatic rattle, and made the metal of the fire escape a thing you wouldn't touch without gloves, even in July.
Theresa "Tess" Mroz pulled her thin coat tighter, the wool scratchy against her neck. Across the narrow bedroom she shared with her two younger brothers, Gayle Duguay was already dressed, sitting on the windowsill like a cat, her breath fogging the glass as she stared down at the icy street. She always watched the street. Said it was good to know who was coming before they got there.
"He's late," Gayle murmured, not turning around.
"He's always late," Tess said, pulling a chunky-knit hat down over her ears. It was an ugly thing, mustard yellow, but it was warm. A "five-finger discount" from a stall at the Niagara County Fair two years ago. "He's probably deciding if his socks match his existential dread."
Gayle finally turned, a rare smile cracking her usually serious face. She had a great smile, lopsided and quick, and it always made Tess's stomach do a little flip. They'd been a thing for three months, ever since Tess had found Gayle crying behind the Save-A-Lot after her old man had thrown her out again. Tess had just taken her hand and led her home. Ma Mroz, too tired and too beaten down to ask questions, had just pointed to the couch. A few weeks later, the couch became Tess's bedroom floor, and then Tess's bed. It wasn't spoken of. In their world, you didn't name things; you just survived them.
A sharp, triple knock on the doorframe of their apartment, not the door, it was always open, announced Leroy Talbert. He slipped in, bringing a gust of frigid air and the scent of stale cigarette smoke from the hallway.
"You're late," Tess said.
Leroy Talbert was meticulously put together, which was a minor miracle given his circumstances. His second-hand coat was brushed clean, his jeans were neatly cuffed, and his dark hair was shaped into a perfect, gravity-defying wave. He held up a small paper bag with a flourish.
"Wasn't late. I was ‘procuring’. Saccharin tablets. Mrs. Kowalski on the third floor paid me a whole dollar to get them from the pharmacy. Her son usually does it, but he's in the county lockup for stealing a snow blower." He shrugged, as if this were a perfectly normal transaction. "A man's gotta have side hustles."
"Your side hustle is running errands for old ladies?" Gayle slid off the windowsill, her voice flat.
"My side hustle is ‘survival’, Gayle. It's called networking. You two should try it. Less risky than lifting car radios."
Tess pulled on her gloves, the yarn thin at the fingertips. "Radios are heavy. We're going for warm today. The gas station on Transit Street has those new insulated gloves behind the counter. The good ones. The guy who works the afternoon shift, he's old and he watches a little TV on a portable. We go in, we create a distraction..."
"A distraction," Leroy repeated, raising an eyebrow. He looked from Tess to Gayle, a knowing look on his face. "And what kind of fireworks are we talking about?"
Gayle stepped closer to Tess, a silent, possessive movement. "The kind you don't need to worry about. You're just the grab-and-go."
Leroy put a hand to his heart in mock offense. "Just the grab-and-go. I see how it is. I'm the help." He sighed dramatically, then his expression softened. He looked at them, these two fierce girls who had each other, and for a flicker, the loneliness was there in his eyes, deep and cold as the Erie Canal in January. He quickly masked it with another grin. "Fine. But I get first pick of the gloves. My hands get chapped." He held them out, and they were indeed, perfectly clean and surprisingly unblemished.
Tess looked at Gayle. Gayle gave a single, sharp nod.
"Let's go," Tess said.
As they slipped out of the apartment and into the hostile hallway, the weight of the cold hit them. They moved as a unit, three small figures against the grey sprawl of the city below the locks. Up on the Ridge, the big houses would be glowing with warm light. But down here, in the deep cut of the escarpment's shadow, they were just three kids, navigating the ice, hunting for warmth in a town that had none to spare.
The morning had been about patience. In a life where adults were either absent or useless, patience was the only weapon they had.
They met at dawn in the abandoned boiler room of the old mill on Washburn Street. It was their war room, their sanctuary, the only place where the wind couldn't find them. Rusted pipes snaked along the ceiling like frozen veins, and their breath plumed in the dim light filtering through grimy windows.
Leroy had laid out his findings on an upturned spool used for electrical cable. A crude map, drawn on the back of a grocery bag, showed the layout of the Citgo on Transit Street.
"Old man's name is Earl," Leroy said, tapping the spot where the register sat. "Sixty-eight, lives with his sister, watches a lot of game shows. The portable TV is here." He made a small X. "On the counter, to the right. He angles it so he can watch while he stares out the window. Thinks he's being vigilant."
Gayle studied the map, her dark eyes moving like a chess player's. "Blind spot?"
"South corner of the counter," Leroy pointed. "He can't see the low shelves from his stool. The gloves will be here." He marked another X. "End cap, impulse buy section. Hand warmers, lip balm, cheap gloves. They're the insulated Kinco ones. Good leather. Retail for twenty-two ninety-nine."
Tess ran her finger along the route. "I cause the distraction. You two move."
"Wrong," Gayle said quietly. It wasn't argument. It was fact. "I cause the distraction. You're faster. You grab. Leroy's the lookout."
Tess opened her mouth to protest, but Gayle's hand found hers under the rusted pipe. Squeezed once. Don't. They'd had this fight before. Gayle was the one who drew eyes. She knew how to stand, how to move, how to make people uncomfortable or sympathetic on command. Tess was the one who could slip through a crowd like smoke.
"Fine," Tess muttered, but her jaw was tight.
Leroy watched them, a faint, wistful smile tugging at his mouth. They didn't notice. They rarely did when they got like this, coiled around each other like vines. He cleared his throat.
"The approach," he continued, tapping the map. "We come from the cemetery side. Cut through the back lots. There's a delivery alley here…" he traced a line "… that empties onto the side street. We stage behind the dumpster. The timing has to be tight. Earl takes his smoke break at 10:47 every morning. His sister's been dead twelve years but he still calls it his 'fresh air for the constitution.' Steps outside, lights up, stands in the sun for exactly four minutes and twenty seconds. I've counted."
"You've watched him for days," Tess said. It wasn't a question.
Leroy shrugged. "Preparation prevents poor performance."
Gayle almost smiled. Almost. "The truck?"
"Delivery truck comes at 10:45. Pepsi. The driver, Ron, he's got a bad back and takes three minutes to unload four cases. He leaves the truck running. Earl watches Ron because Ron tells stories about his ex-wife. So Earl's attention is split. The truck blocks the view of the pumps from the street."
They ran it four more times. Tess asked questions. Gayle poked holes. Leroy adjusted. By the time weak sunlight started bleeding through the grime, they had it down to a series of movements, a choreography as precise as anything performed on a stage up on the Ridge where the rich kids took their ballet lessons.
At 10:32, they were in position.
The dumpster smelled like rotting fruit and motor oil, but it blocked the wind. Tess had her back pressed against the cold metal, counting her breaths like her mother had taught her, back when her mother still taught her things. In for four. Hold for four. Out for four. Gayle stood at the corner of the alley, watching the station with predator stillness. Leroy was checking his cuffs, brushing a smear of something from his sleeve.
"Stop fidgeting," Gayle whispered.
"Stop breathing," Leroy shot back, but he stopped.
At 10:44, the Pepsi truck rumbled into view. Ron, a thick man with a limp, parked at the side bay and killed the engine. Then, cursing, started it again for heat. Good. Better.
At 10:46, Earl emerged from the station. Even from here, they could see the thin plume of his breath, the way he hunched into his coat. He lit a cigarette with shaking hands and leaned against the brick, facing Ron.
At 10:47 and thirty seconds, Gayle moved.
She walked out of the alley like she owned it, her posture shifting into something vulnerable and a little lost. She approached the glass door of the station, peered inside, then knocked. When no one answered, she wrapped her arms around herself, shivering visibly, and glanced around with the perfect expression of a girl who had nowhere else to go.
Tess was already moving.
She slipped from the alley at an angle, keeping the Pepsi truck between her and Earl. Her feet knew the ice, knew how to roll from heel to toe to keep from slipping. She reached the side of the station, pressed her back to the cold brick, and listened.
Through the wall, she heard Gayle's voice, muffled. "Please, sir? I just need to use the phone. My ride left me. I'm so cold."
Earl's answering mumble. Hesitation. Then the creak of the door opening.
Now.
Tess slid around the corner, through the gap where the Pepsi truck blocked the window. The glass door stood open, Gayle blocking Earl's view inside. Tess dropped to a crouch and slipped through.
The warmth hit her like a wall. The smell of coffee and cigarettes. The glow of the portable TV where Vanna White was turning letters. The gloves were right where Leroy said they'd be. A whole stack of them, brown leather with tan lining. Kinco. Her size.
She grabbed three pairs. Stuffed them in her coat. Turned.
And that's when she heard it.
Not the TV. Not Gayle's voice. Something else. A sound from outside that didn't belong. A rumble growing louder, wrong, too fast.
Leroy's voice, sharp as a slap: "Tess! Move!"
She bolted. Through the stock room, out the back delivery door, just as the world behind her exploded.
The sound was catastrophic. A screaming engine, the shriek of metal on ice, then the hollow, deafening crash of impact. Tess stumbled into the alley and turned.
A sedan, a dull green Oldsmobile from the '90s, its roof piled with tied-down belongings, had missed the curve on Transit. It had hit the ice patch that formed every winter at the intersection, where runoff from the car wash froze into a black mirror. The driver had overcorrected. The car had spun, clipped the first pump island, shearing off a nozzle and sending it spinning, and then, with horrible momentum, plowed directly into the front of the station.
The glass doors didn't just break. They vaporized. The aluminum framing folded like paper. The car's front end disappeared into the building, taking out half the counter, the cigarette display, and the portable TV where Vanna White had just been turning letters.
For one frozen second, nothing moved.
Then Earl screamed.
Gayle was on the ground, thrown back by the force of the exploding glass. She was scrambling backward on her hands, her face a mask of shock. The driver's door of the Oldsmobile opened and a woman fell out, clutching a child to her chest, both of them screaming.
Leroy was already running. Not away. Toward.
"Gayle!" He grabbed her arm, hauled her up. A piece of glass had sliced her cheek, blood welling bright red against her pale skin. "Can you walk? Can you…"
She pushed him. "Run. Both of you. Run."
People were coming now. From the Laundromat across the street. From the diner. Ron the Pepsi driver was shouting into his radio. A man was pulling the woman and child away from the wreckage.
Tess reached them. Grabbed Gayle's hand. "Now. This way."
They ran.
Down the alley, through the cemetery, leaping headstones, their breath tearing out of them in white clouds. Behind them, sirens started to wail, thin and distant.
They didn't stop until they reached the frozen canal, until they were crouched beneath the shadow of the Flight of Five locks, hidden from the road, hidden from everything.
Only then did Leroy look down at his arm. His sleeve was dark and wet, the fabric shredded. He peeled it back carefully, hissing at the cold air hitting the wound. A deep bruise was already flowering across his forearm, purple and black, but the skin wasn't broken.
"Bastard side mirror," he muttered. "Hit me when it spun."
Tess was shaking. Not from cold. She stared at Gayle's bleeding face, at Leroy's arm, at her own empty hands.
The gloves were gone. Dropped somewhere in the alley, or the cemetery, or the street. Three pairs of Kinco insulated gloves, twenty-two ninety-nine each, lost.
Gayle reached out, slow and gentle, and touched Tess's face. "We're alive," she said. "That's the score."
Leroy leaned back against the stone wall of the lock, his perfect hair finally ruined, falling across his forehead. He stared up at the grey sky, at the unseen mansions on the Ridge above them.
"Well," he said quietly, "that didn't go as planned."
For a long moment, none of them spoke. The sirens faded. The wind picked up, finding them even here, in the shadow of the great stone walls.
Then, despite everything, Tess started to laugh. It was a broken sound, half sob, but it was real. Gayle joined her, a low chuckle that made her wince at the cut on her cheek. And finally, Leroy, practical, precise, picky Leroy, threw his head back and laughed too, loud and raw, the sound echoing off the frozen locks and up toward the rich folks who would never, ever know their names.
***