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They’d been…nine, maybe ten? Old enough to have some semblance of independence, old enough to know better but not to care. Leo’s dad had ordered so many special Popsicles and ice cream bars and fancy treats for the neighborhood Fourth of July cookout that he’d needed to store them in the extra basement fridge of the house next door.

From the way Leo had explained it, it sounded logical. “When the ice cream comes out tomorrow night, it’s going to be madness,” he said from his seat on the swing beside her, both their legs kicking in solemn agreement. “People everywhere, little kids grabbing for dessert. We need inside information, or who knows what could happen. People are going to be in there grabbing for something, anything. We could end up with a root beer bar or something else gross.” They both stuck out their tongues. “We need to taste test everything beforehand so that we can make sure to get something good at the party in the madness.”

“But they’re in the Smiths’ basement,” Shira had said. “How are we supposed to taste test anything in there?”

Leo’s eyes had gleamed. “They’re both at work all day, and Curtis and Lucas are in day care till five. We’ll have a full two hours from when we get home from camp until they all do. Plenty of time.”

Thus began Shira’s very first (and honestly, only) foray into lawbreaking. Leo’s dad had an extra key to the Smiths’ house in case of emergency, and so all they had to do was swipe it, sneak through the Smiths’ back door so that no neighbors would see them, and then enjoy their ill-gotten treats on the Smiths’ cracked leather basement couch. The Oreo Fudgsicles, it had been unanimously decided: That was what they’d aim for in the madness the next day.

“I remember that day very well,” Shira said now, the shadow of this bakery looming over her. “Do you? Because I remember being screamed at by Mr. Smith when he came home early from work.”

“Yeah, but he didn’t tell on us after we threatened to tell his wife, so it all worked out,” Leo said sunnily. They both hadn’t understood why that had worked; they’d only learned later that Mr. Smith had been fired and neglected to let her know.

“Didn’t the Smiths take their key back from your parents without telling them why, and your mom thought they hated them?”

“So?”

“Why can’t you just DM Theo and get him to let us in?”

“I did check out his profile first,” Leo said. “He’s currently hiking his way up Mount Kilimanjaro. Not much signal atop Africa’s tallest mountain.” He paused. “And no, before you ask, I couldn’t find either of his parents online. This is our only option.”

She sighed. Damn Theo and his very impressive hiking goals. “I really don’t want to get arrested,” she said. “I can’t imagine many galleries would hire a felon.”

“We’re not going to get arrested,” he said. “We’ll be in and out in ten minutes. And remember, we’re not stealing, since everything’s already paid for. We’ll even lock up behind us. Come on, the longer we stand here, the more chance there is of someone catching us.”

And so, Shira found herself pressed against the back of the bakery, sweat dampening her underarms and pearling on her forehead, keeping watch as Leo fiddled with the lockpicks. “How do you even own those, let alone know how to use them?” she asked, trying to distract herself from the thought of celebrating Hanukkah tonight in a prison cell.

Though he didn’t turn her way, keeping his focus on the task at hand, she knew his glancing half smile was for her. “My grandparents had one of those beautiful old houses where every room had its own French doors. The keys were lost long ago, probably before they even bought the house. After my grandpa’s wife died, dementia started setting in for my grandpa, and he’d constantly be locking himself into or out of rooms, so…”

“I’m sorry,” she said. Words felt useless here. She almost wished she could show him her feelings in a picture, something quickly sketched or painted: You’d think blue would be natural for sadness or sympathy, but she’d go yellow, a washed-out, almost-golden yellow, one strong in its central line and fading to fuzziness toward the outside of the page.

He shrugged. “It is what it is.” His hand sprang back toward him, and her heart jumped, afraid, absurdly, that he’d activated some high-tech security system and been electrocuted. But all he did was tuck the picks back into his pocket and turn the door handle, his half smile turning into a full-on sly grin. “Let’s go.”

She inhaled deeply, taking another wide look around her. All she could see besides the crumbling asphalt of the nearly empty parking lot were trees. No movement—not even the flash of a bird or scamper of a squirrel. If the police showed up now, she could be okay. She hadn’t actually done anything illegal. But the second she crossed the threshold of that building…

Don’t think about getting arrested. Think about throwing a Hanukkah party without any doughnuts. It’s basically an affront to God.

And also—she didn’t want to think about it, because it made her feel like a bad person—there was a tiny little part of her that was reveling in the delicious thrill.

Another deep breath. Her foot crossed the threshold, landing on worn tile. There. Officially a lawbreaker. Her stomach squirmed with all sorts of things. She wouldn’t be painting in yellow now; she’d be painting in purple, one that was a little trembly around the edges—she’d always seen purple as a nervous color for some reason—and darkening close to black in the middle to symbolize the unknown. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

Going inside was anticlimactic after all that: They closed the door behind them, turned on their phone flashlights to avoid flipping on a light that might be seen from the front of the building, and that was that. No alarm started wailing. No masked paratroopers stormed the building, guns drawn. They just walked down a short hallway, opened a door, and literally, there was her order sitting on a gleaming metal table, her full name stickied onto it with a Post-it. Very professional. “All right,” Leo said, hefting the plastic bags of white boxes like they weighed nothing. “You already paid for them, right? So we’re good to take them and go?”

Like she thought, anticlimactic. She’d spent so long building herself up and talking herself into doing the thing, she couldn’t just take her order and go. She looked from side to side, her stomach jangling with nerves and terror and also excitement. “Yes. But doesn’t lockpicking make you hungry?” There was a clear glass refrigerator door, through which she could see little cakes and tarts lined up on shelves. A big shelving unit was stocked with day-old croissants and pieces of banana bread, probably waiting to be tossed or sold at a discount. “I could go for a snack.”

His eyes widened. “We’re already breaking and entering, you want to steal, too?”

She couldn’t tell if he sounded impressed or aghast. “Of course I don’t want to steal,” she said. “I’ve got cash, we’ll leave whatever the items cost on the table.”

And then—a creak.

From the direction of the door.

Someone’s coming. Shira’s heart jumped into her throat, and her body jumped, too. In Leo’s direction.

He dropped the bags of doughnuts and caught her before she could collide with anything. It was a statement to her panic that she didn’t even react to the sound of her precious doughnuts hitting the floor. “Did you hear that?” she whispered with barely more than a breath, and it was only then she became aware of how close they were to each other.

As in, she couldn’t really separate where she ended and he began. She was tucked flush against him, her rabbit-fast heart against his hard chest, his reassuring arms wrapped around her, strong on her back. When he whispered in return, goose bumps erupted all over her arms at the brush of his words on her forehead. “Yes.”