.././.\

Chad wears the chain like a necklace on the way to the empty lot. The walk feels more like a hike, with Zandra's bad ankle setting the pace. Bexley and Chad perk up after chugging energy drinks they brought along from "grandma's house." They neglected to grab one for Zandra, although she would've turned down the offer.

I can smell the fakey medicine flavor from here. How did these things get so popular smelling like cough medicine made in a bathtub?

Chad gathers the empties and tosses them onto a storm grate a half-block from the empty lot.

"Pick that shit up," Zandra says in a huff.

"But they're empty and there isn't a trash can around," Chad says.

Whatever sympathy I had for you a few hours ago is gone, Chad. You're back on the idiot list.

"You're basically leaving a sign that says, 'We were here.' Pick them up," Zandra says.

Bexley joins in. "Yeah, and they can pull our DNA and stuff off the cans."

Thanks, Bexley, but you're still guilty by association, too.

It's 10:30 p.m. when they arrive at the empty lot. The night does little to swallow their shadows, since the streetlights are all on. However, in Wisconsin—as with the rest of the Midwest—10:30 p.m. is considered late. Anything that happens afterward may as well happen at midnight, even in the summer.

And that means there shouldn't be too many witnesses.

"In we go," Zandra says and starts into the small patch of woods that make up the empty lot. "Keep your flashlights turned off."

"I didn't bring a flashlight," Chad says.

I didn't think you would, but I thought I'd mention it on the infinitesimally small chance you thought ahead and brought one.

The empty lot offers plenty of options to remain concealed without compromising the view of the street. Shadows cast by the trees keep the streetlights from illuminating the brush below. Zandra gets into position, with Chad and Bexley flanking either side of her.

"I feel like we're in a spy movie," Bexley says.

Zandra raises a nicotine-stained index finger to her lips.

In spy movies, they don't talk unless they absolutely need to, Bexley.

The silence only lasts for a minute.

"What are we doing here again?" Chad says in a whisper.

Making sure you're never qualified to be a spy, apparently.

I'd stay quiet, but if I don't answer him, he's only going to ask more questions.

"We're waiting for someone to park on the street and walk to the dead end where the cul-de-sac is," Zandra says.

"Oh, right," Chad says. "And then what?"

"Then we go to the house at the cul-de-sac and get a good look at whoever that person is," Zandra says.

"Right. OK," Chad says.

"Feel free to be quiet now," Zandra says as quietly as she can.

"OK, I won't talk anymore. Sorry, Zandra. Sometimes I don't know when to shut up. I'll be quiet from now on. I promise," Chad says.

Bexley does a "zip it" motion across her lips toward Chad, but it's too dark for him to see. Zandra shuts him up with an elbow to the side.

The three wait and watch. Zandra fights the exhaustion tugging at her eyelids. The energy drinks keep Chad and Bexley alert but bored. Zandra can almost feel them tense up in an effort not to fidget.

Vehicles drive up and down the street, their occupants unaware of the three pairs of eyes looking out from the empty lot. An owl hoots from somewhere in the empty lot, but it doesn't draw any attention.

Just as Zandra can't fight the drowsiness any longer, a car parks about a block away. Zandra hears the car door slam before she can see the vehicle. She repositions herself in the brush for a better look.

The door slam was too loud to be discreet. Then again, isn't going out of your way to close a car door quietly suspicious?

Zandra makes out two figures exiting the car. Whoever they are, they aren't interested in the cul-de-sac. They chat and walk to a house next to where they parked.

That's a miss.

A second car pulls up behind that one.

Same thing. Must be having company. If I had the patience, I could figure out why. But I don't.

Another car door slams from the other end of the street. It's closer this time. Zandra elbows Chad aside for a better look. A truck fires up and drives off.

Leaving rather than arriving. That makes it easy to check off.

Another 10 minutes or so pass. A car with an illuminated, triangle-shaped logo on its roof drives slowly down the street.

Pizza delivery.

Chad, please don't try to make a joke about this.

"Pizza? Nice. I'm hungry," Chad says. Not even the owl offers a pity chuckle.

Thanks. Now shut the hell up. The car is stopping at the empty lot.

The sight of the car so close settles Chad down. Zandra can make out an outline of the person inside, but she's more concerned with the logo on the roof. It's a generic piece of pizza.

No name of the restaurant. Just a piece of pizza. Could be something. Could be nothing.

Whoever is inside the car decides the empty lot isn't the right address for a delivery. They creep the car further down the street in the direction of the intersection with the dead end, parking between two houses.

One of the houses has the lights on. The other one doesn't.

A car door opens and slams.

As expected.

Zandra leans back against a tree, putting the car out of her view.

It's the easiest thing in the world to fool yourself. Sometimes a pizza delivery is just a pizza delivery.

The owl hoots above her head. Zandra looks up at the night sky. The stars align in perfect chaos.

The constellations aren't really there, either, unless you make them be.

A few minutes go by. Zandra switches her attention back to the street. Something catches her eye. Or, rather, the lack of something catches her eye.

The logo on the pizza delivery car is dark now.

Zandra raises an eyebrow.

How long does it take to deliver a pizza anyway?

"This is it," Zandra says in a whisper.

"Are you sure?" Bexley says.

"Positive."

Only about 60 percent positive, but let's go with that.

"Zandra's just hungry," Chad says.

You are simply incapable of shutting the fuck up, aren't you, Chad?

Bexley starts walking away, but Zandra stops her.

"Let's give it a few more minutes," Zandra says.

No sense in blowing our cover. This "pizza delivery" person probably looks over their shoulder a lot.

Of course, the longer we wait, the harder it'll be to ID this person. Unless...

"Are we going to the dead end or what?" Bexley says after her patience runs out.

...we check out the car.

Zandra points down the street. "Follow me."

There's no reason to be stealthy on the way to the car given the streetlights, so the three take the sidewalk in plain view.

We don't walk like criminals. That helps. There's a certain swagger, a stilted bravado, to how people walk when they're confident enough to go through with a crime. My ankle gives me a lot of cover. Chad's not built for swagger. Bexley can walk the walk, but we're bunched too close together on the sidewalk to look like we're up to something. We're walking like tourists.

Zandra stops them just as the car's license plate comes into view. She recites the three letters and three numbers.

"Is there any way we can look that up?" Zandra says.

"No idea," Bexley says.

"Remember it," Zandra says. Then, on second thought, she says, "Write it down."

They get a little closer, but Zandra stops them again. A flurry of doubt keeps her from getting too close.

What's the point of doing this? We'll raise suspicions if we start looking in the windows. If we try the doors, a car alarm might go off. Besides, if this person is going out of their way to fake a pizza delivery, would they use their own car? Wouldn't they borrow one? Or maybe rent one?

Sometimes I wish I didn't think so much.

Fortunately for Zandra—or perhaps unfortunately—Chad has the opposite problem. He crouches down and scurries toward the car like he's in a trench at the Somme. Before Zandra or Bexley can bash his brains in through his ears, he tries the front passenger door.

The door opens. No alarm.

Once again proving that useful idiots will never be out of a job. Nice work, Chad.

Before Zandra can lead the first look into the car, Chad is already inside.

"What the hell are you thinking?" Zandra says and tugs the back of Chad's leather jacket. He follows like a leashed dog back onto the sidewalk.

"I wanted a whiff of that pizza," Chad says.

"You dumb fuck," Zandra says and gives Chad a push. He slides back a few inches, caught off balance. Bexley doesn't seem to mind. "You're getting your dirty burnout stink all over the car. They'll know you were in here."

"Yeah, but I thought we were trying to...," Chad starts to say.

"Shut up. Just shut the fuck up," Zandra says. Then she pauses and looks through the open car door. "Wait."

There's not much inside that car. Very clean and tidy. How much gear does a pizza delivery person need in their car? I haven't ordered pizza in a long, long time. Is it like a cab, with calculators and computers? Do people even take cabs anymore? Fuck, I sound old. I think old.

"When's the last time you ordered pizza delivery?" Zandra says.

"Last week," Bexley says.

"How is the order delivered?"

"They knock on the door."

"Do they have any sort of computer they use?"

"No. It's all paid for ahead of time."

"So they just drop the food off?"

"Yeah."

Now to capitalize on Chad's stupidity for the second time.

"OK. Now, Chad, listen to me," Zandra says. "You went in for a whiff. What did you smell?"

Chad dusts his leather jacket off and sniffs. "That's what I was trying to tell you."

"What?"

"If you stick your head in there, you should smell pizza. Greasy ass pizza. It's, like, science, OK? All I smelled was nothing," Chad says.

Nothing might mean something. Nothing might mean nothing, too. Maybe I should smell for myself.

Before Zandra can do that, a man from across the street says, "What the hell are you doing to my car?"