Back to day 5

Woke up to the sound of Hicks arguing with someone in my living room. Checked my phone — 9 am. I’d slept maybe four hours, all of them shitty. Had dreams about elderly people chasing me with generators while I ate potato salad and pretended not to notice.

Stumbled out of my room. Hicks was sitting on the couch with that goddamn grocery receipt list spread out on my coffee table. Dooley and Rat were there too, both looking at the list like it was a treasure map. Which, I guess, it kind of was. A treasure map to other people’s shit.

“Morning, sunshine,” Hicks said without looking up.

I grunted. Mornings are hard enough without having a crime syndicate planning their next heist in your living room.

Rat pointed at something on the list. “What about 3C? Says here she’s got a window unit.”

“Nah, she’s too mouthy. Rides my ass every time I park in her spot,” Hicks said.

My stomach did that flip thing again. 3C. That was Mrs. Patterson. She was like ninety and weighed maybe eighty pounds. She yelled at everyone about everything. Last week she told me my car was “an eyesore to decent people.” I’d wanted to tell her that her face was an eyesore, but I’m not good with confrontation, so I just nodded and left.

“You guys hitting people in MY building?” I asked.

Hicks looked up. “So?”

“So people know me here. If shit goes down, they’re gonna think I’m involved.”

“Aren’t you though?” Dooley asked, gesturing around my apartment. At the Bluetooth speaker. At the fancy watch still on my coffee table. At the fancy beer bottles in the corner.

“I didn’t steal anything.”

“Nah, you just benefited from it. Ate the steaks. Drank the beer. Wore the watch.” Rat grinned. “What do they call that? Accessory after the fact?”

“Fuck you.”

“Hey, relax,” Hicks said, holding up his hands. “We’re not hitting this building. Not worth the risk. Too close to home. We’re branching out. Couple streets over. Better targets.”

“Better how?”

“Better as in they got nicer shit and don’t know us.” He folded up the list. “Plus, they got generators. Food still good. It’s like shopping, except free.”

“It’s called stealing.”

“It’s called survival,” Hicks said. “These rich assholes got generators and full fridges while the rest of us are sweating our balls off eating canned beans. That fair to you?”

It wasn’t. But that didn’t make stealing from them okay. Though I didn’t say that because, again, coward.

Dooley stood up. “We’re heading out. Gonna scope some places. Be back later.”

They left. I stood there looking at my coffee table where the list had been. My apartment suddenly felt very small and very dirty. Like I could see all the stolen goods in a new light. The speaker wasn’t just a speaker — it was someone’s speaker. The watch wasn’t just a watch — it was someone’s watch. Probably someone who missed it. Probably someone who filed a police report about it.

I picked up the watch. Turned it over. On the back, engraved: “To Dad, Happy Retirement. Love, Sarah.”

Oh fuck.

I put it down like it was radioactive. Some dad was missing his retirement watch. Some Sarah had saved up to buy it for him. And it was sitting on my coffee table next to a half-eaten bag of cheese curls and an empty beer can.

I should call the cops. The card was still in my pants pocket from yesterday. I could call right now. Turn in Hicks and his crew. Return the stolen goods. Do the right thing.

But if I called the cops, they’d ask questions. Like why did I wait so long? Why was all this stolen stuff in my apartment? Why didn’t I say something when they came to QuickEMart yesterday? And I didn’t have good answers. Just cowardice and laziness and a general desire to not get involved in anything that requires effort or consequences.

So I did nothing. Again. Just sat on my couch, staring at that watch, feeling like a piece of shit. Which I was. Am. Whatever.

Decided to take a shower to wash off the guilt. Still cold. Still awful. Starting to think cold showers are a metaphor for my entire life — uncomfortable, unpleasant, and entirely my own fault for not planning ahead.

Got dressed. Considered going to work early but then remembered I wasn’t scheduled until tonight. So I had a whole day to sit in my apartment, surrounded by stolen goods, thinking about my life choices. Fun.

Around noon, someone knocked on my door. For a second I thought it was the cops and nearly shit myself. But it was just Jenny from across the hall. The grad student who helped me jump my car that one time. She looked exhausted. Had that same haunted look everyone’s been wearing since the power went out.

“Hey,” she said. “Did you hear anything weird last night? Like breaking glass?”

My heart started doing that thing again. “No. Why?”

“Someone broke into my apartment. Smashed my window. Stole my laptop and my external hard drive.”

“That sucks. What was on it?”

“My dissertation. Three years of work. All my research, my interviews, everything.” Her eyes were getting watery. “I backed everything up to the external drive. They took that too.”

I wanted to ask what her dissertation was about. I wanted to say something comforting. I wanted to not be a complete waste of space. But all I could manage was: “Did you call the cops?”

“Yeah. They took a report. Said they’d ‘investigate.'” She wiped her eyes. “If you hear anything…”

“Yeah, of course. I’ll let you know.”

She nodded and walked away. I closed the door and stood there, forehead pressed against it, wishing I was literally anyone else.

Because here’s the thing — I knew where her laptop was. Or at least, I knew who had it. And I could get it back. I could tell her. I could fix this one thing.

But that would mean admitting I knew. That I’d known for days. That I’d been complicit. And then Jenny would hate me. And the cops would arrest me. And my landlord would evict me. And I’d lose my job. And my life, which already sucked, would become measurably worse.

So I did nothing. Again.

Ate some ramen. Cold. Because I couldn’t be bothered to fire up the propane stove. Also because I’m pretty sure we’re out of propane. Also because I deserved to eat cold ramen like the garbage person I am.

Around 3 pm, Hicks came back. Alone this time. He looked agitated. Kept pacing around my apartment, checking his phone, looking out the window.

“You good?” I asked.

“Yeah. Fine. Just… keeping an eye out.”

“For what?”

“Nothing. Cops have been cruising the neighborhood. Asking questions.”

My stomach dropped. “What kind of questions?”

“About break-ins. About suspicious people. Someone must’ve seen something.” He stopped pacing and looked at me. “You didn’t say anything, right?”

“No.”

“You sure? Because if the cops come knocking, I need to know you’re solid.”

“I’m solid,” I said, which was hilarious because I’m about as solid as jello in a earthquake.

“Good. Because we’re all in this together. You know that, right? You’re part of this whether you like it or not. You got stolen goods in your apartment. You ate stolen food. You’ve been housing us while we worked. That makes you an accomplice.”

“I didn’t know–“

“Doesn’t matter. What matters is what the cops think. And right now, if they bust us, you go down too.” He stepped closer. “So we’re gonna keep our mouths shut and wait for this to blow over. Power comes back, everyone moves on, no one remembers. Deal?”

I wanted to say no. I wanted to tell him to get the fuck out of my apartment. I wanted to grab that watch and Jenny’s laptop and march them down to the police station and confess everything.

But I didn’t. Because I’m weak. Because I’m scared. Because I’m exactly the kind of person who lets bad things happen because standing up requires effort.

“Deal,” I said.

Hicks smiled. Clapped me on the shoulder. “That’s my boy. Hey, you hungry? Dooley’s bringing by some watermelon later. Good stuff. Still cold.”

Watermelon. Fourth of July weekend. Someone’s picnic, probably. Someone’s family gathering that got robbed so Hicks and his crew could have a snack.

“Nah, I’m good,” I said.

“Suit yourself.” He grabbed a beer from the fridge — still cold because someone’s generator was keeping our stolen goods fresh — and crashed on the couch.

I went to my room. Closed the door. Sat on my bed. Pulled out the cops’ card from my pants pocket. Looked at it for a long time. The number was right there. All I had to do was call.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I shoved the card in my nightstand drawer, lay down, and stared at the ceiling. Outside, I could hear generators humming. Someone somewhere still had power. Someone somewhere was living their normal life while mine spiraled into an increasingly dark shit show.

Still no power. Still no idea when it’s coming back. Still no idea how I became this person.

But hey, at least I’ll have watermelon later. Silver linings, right?

On to day 7