When the Silverheels decided to go to Salem for the weekend, it usually meant that they had enough to trade. Enough harvest from their kitchen gardens for the Salem farmers' market, enough arty-crafty things from the girls for the city fleamarket. This was one such weekend.

All the vegetables and fruits were loaded in one corner of the truck's carrier, another corner held the dried herbs, teas, and dehumidified mushrooms and berries. The remaining space had stacks of Winona's paintings, rows of Meda's woodcuts and small stone sculptures, and a carton of leather jewelry and accessories from Donovan.

The half-hour long drive from Andover to Salem was usually filled with Meda and Winona chatting. They talked about women like Lagertha and Khutulun and their mother, they talked about the easiest medium in art, or the ones with the best results, or how to best combine them for the perfect mixed media piece, and they also talked about the forests they had known all their lives, and about the other forests that they were strangers to. Today, however, the Chevrolet was silent. Meda could feel the weight of the silence on her shoulders.

She watched Winona from the corner of her eye, and as expressionless as her face was, Meda was still acutely aware of the discomfiture she exuded. It didn't matter how marbled and cold the walls Winona built around herself were, they could hide and hold back nothing from Meda. She needed to sort out whatever had soured between them and soon.

After they pulled up in front of the plot they'd been assigned, Donovan helped them unload. His fatherly rambling had begun.

"You have made these," he said, "and you get to decide how much your time and efforts are worth."

Meda sighed. "Yes, pa."

"And don't let anyone tell you that your work is less than what you deem it worth," Donovan continued, "light bargaining is alright but—"

"Papa," Winona cut him off, "we know. We've got this, okay? Don't worry about us."

"Okay." Donovan exhaled loudly. "Just making sure."

Meda reassured him, "we're sure. You should go set up your stall at the farmers' market."

After hugging both his daughters, Donovan was finally on his way. Deeming it the ideal moment to breach the subject of their last altercation, Meda turned to Winona but her sister had already shoved in her earphones and fortified herself within the angry music she so enjoyed. Deflated, Meda only huffed and got to work on displaying their goods.

The fleamarket was crowded within hours, attracting folks from all walks of life, and with a customer every other minute, Meda didn't find any moment for talking it out with Winona. By lunchtime, she had lost all motivation. So, she just checked her pockets for her cash and nonchalantly put out, "I'm gonna get some food. You want anything?"

"A sandwich would be nice," Winona said.

Meda nodded and took off, desperate for some time away from the tension between them. She found a little roach-coach soon enough and ordered a plate of pasta. She figured she could get Winona's sandwich on her way back. As she stood under a large, rainbow-colored patio umbrella eating her pasta, her mind wandered to the people – either scurrying or sauntering, going about their lives, searching for some happiness or the other. What they went searching for was of little to no interest to Meda. She was, in fact, more than just interested in the things they wore or carried, baubles noosing their necks, fettering their wrists, the wallets in their pockets, the phones in their hands. They awakened a sense of wonder in her – how long before somebody noticed a missing ring? And how long until their attachment to it faded?

However, the questions receded into her mind as a familiar desire took ahold of her. Meda flexed her fingers to quell the itching in her palms, yet it wasn't enough. The remainder of her lunch forgotten, she shook her arms to loosen the muscles, while her eyes scrutinized the people in search of a target. An uproarious engine drew her attention, as it did everyone else's. The Mercedes came to a screeching stop on the sideroad opposite to where Meda stood. While everyone else returned to what they were doing, she was fixated on the driver of the flashy ride. He crossed the road and strolled towards the fleamarket. She followed, inconspicuous as a shadow to everyone.

Meda hadn't indulged this particular desire for a long time, choosing instead to suppress it for the sake of her father. If Donovan came to know of this, he would be very disappointed. The guilt was a little gnawing in the back of her mind – unobtrusive – nevertheless, she chose to subdue it under the justification of targeting an unsavory character. Someone who had it coming.

Hanging around nearby, Meda watched him stop at an old antique dealer's stall. Seeing the man haggle, chest puffed and towering over the frail quinquagenarian in an attempt to intimidate him into selling at an inappropriately low price, Meda judged that he definitely had it coming. As she waited for the right moment, she observed the trinkets he had decorated himself with. His fat silver rings – too risky, they looked stuck on his sausage-fingers. His wristwatch – was that a Rolex? – doable. The wallet outlined in the back-pockets of his baggy jeans – safest bet. His very large iPhone was ruled out; people noticed their phones missing almost immediately.

An opportunity presented itself in the form of a group of excited nuns. The sisters swarmed the alley between the stalls in a squall of black and white and rosaries and Bibles, polite yet somehow still jostling everyone in their path, including the man Meda had set her sights on. She walked closely behind them, still a shadow of a presence. And then in their clamorous wake, her clandestine fingers had swiped the wallet from his pocket. It felt heavy and warm in her hand, illicit and breathless in her chest. Giddy like this after such a long time, Meda crossed her arms, hiding the prize behind the folds and took off back towards her stall.

Now, where and how to get rid of it...

Meda didn't need the wallet or its contents, she'd only wanted the thrill that came with taking it. Now that she'd gotten what she wanted, the thing was quickly losing its charm as a prize and turning into a burden.

As soon as she settled into the chair beside Winona, she heard her ask, "does papa know you're back at it?"

Startled, Meda recomposed herself, and said, "I'd prefer it if he didn't know or find out."

"Okay," Winona said, glancing at her, "what'd you get?"

Under the cover of their table, Meda showed her the thick leather wallet. She opened it up and a flip-flap of cards fell out. Winona, in turn, withdrew her hand from the pocket of her hoodie and opened her fist to show three rings. The silver and stones glittered in her palm, but couldn't quite rival the sparkle in her eyes.

"Pretty," mumbled Meda. Then, louder, she asked, "do you think we're kleptomaniacs?"

"Maybe..." Winona's voice was light, unbothered. "But we can stop anytime we want to... I don't think a kleptomaniac can say the same."

"Yeah..."

"Why do you do it?"

Meda considered the question. "I don't know... there's this exhilaration before—no, but that's not it. I just like the... uh—"

"The feeling of knowing someone's gonna be distressed and you caused it?" Winona finished for her.

"Oh gosh..." Wrinkling her nose, Meda groaned. "Why do you have to make it sound like we're sociopaths?"

Winona shrugged. "Maybe we are."

The two sat in silence for a while, the traffic having considerably lessened since lunch. Then Winona spoke up again, "something happened on Wednesday..."

Meda stiffened, remembering that was the day they'd had their fight. "What...?"

"There was an attempted burglary at Rorio's. And he's fine, his bodega is fine, but something happened to me..."

"Well, you're here so you didn't die," remarked Meda, poking her arm with a finger, "and you've always been dead inside so that's not it."

Snorting, Winona continued, "no, that's not it. It's this feeling I had when I'd disarmed the burglar..."

While she listened to Winona recount, Meda's eyes widened in shocked recognition. She knew exactly what feeling her sister was talking about. She'd felt the same way after pushing Jason off herself and breaking his nose, upon seeing him rolling on the floor with his face in his hands and crying...