Blaine dashed through the rows of corn, halfway crouched over and praying silently to no god in particular that he didn’t hear sirens or see flashing lights. He wasn’t about to get caught after all his hard work - he was the best around, and he was going to prove it. Maybe not the most successful, but he was the best. His pack was heavy with loot, though his wallet was light and his apartment was three months behind on the rent. It was time to blow this town, fence the haul and do it again.
Soon, he told himself, emerging from the cornfield and finding himself in an orchard, soon I’ll never have to run out of town at three A.M.. Soon I’ll live in a fancy house with all the modern conveniences I could want, down in Mexico, and let the profits just roll in from my underlings.
The thought crossed his mind that when he’d lived with his father they hadn’t had all of the modern conveniences, but they still had more than he’d had since, and his father, a carpenter, hadn’t had to run away from the police.
Then again, nobody really cared who his father was. He was just a man who made chairs and lived in the white house on Oak Street, with the one son. Blaine had passed that level of fame within a year of striking out on his own. All over the country he was becoming “That guy who robbed my store.” Infamy would be a better word, perhaps, but the root word there was still close enough for Blaine.
On the horizon, the silhouette of what seemed to be a run-down farmhouse slowly grew in his vision. He smiled. There were no lights on within. The fence surrounding it had suffered a fallen tree and was in ruins, and it didn’t look like anyone had paid any attention to keeping the yard in check. Tangles of vegetation ran free across the property. It looked abandoned. As good a place as any to hide.
Blaine entered the yard through the break in the fence and approached the back door. He tried the knob. Locked. Unfortunate, but not insurmountable. If the house really was abandoned, he could just break down the door. But on the off chance that it wasn't...
He decided to check the windows before he messed around with picking the lock. There was a window a few feet away from the door, its antiquated glass plate almost entirely closed. About an inch of space still remained between the frame and the pane. Blaine pulled the window all the way open and climbed through.
He surveyed the room.It was a cozy little living room, with an armchair sitting next to a fireplace. A painting hung above the mantle, and the floor was covered with a thick rug. It was altogether too well maintained for an abandoned house, he thought. For a moment he entertained the thought of backing out. He reminded himself of the break in the fence and the mess of plants in the yard and decided to forge ahead.
To his left was what appeared to be a kitchen, from what he could gather through the thick gloom. To his right was a staircase, reaching up into the only other level in the house. At random he decided to ascend the staircase. It lead to another fork in his path, a closed door and one that had been left ajar. He silently crept through the open door. The room beyond was a study; there was a desk, a bookshelf, a painting of some pastoral scene, and an overall air of peace and reflectiveness. He stalked forward to take a closer look at the objects sitting on the desk. There was some sort of journal, a few pencils, a checkbook, some book whose title he couldn't make out, and an elderly telephone.
A light burst into sudden brilliance in the hall, silhouetting a man against its glare. Blaine realized too late that the house was most certainly occupied.
He made his decision in a fraction of a second. Leaving an injured victim behind was the mark of a sloppy thief - getting caught was worse.
Blaine struck the man in the chest with his shoulder, sending him crashing backward. Blaine turned to flee, but stopped when his eyes fell on the face of the man he'd just struck.
He oddly reminded Blaine of his father, though they looked little alike. Blaine's father was blindingly bald, with a bushy but well kept beard. The prone man had a full head of bright white hair, but was clean-shaven. Perhaps it was the fact that both Blaine's father and this man were unusually strong for their age. Perhaps it was that they were both plying their boring trades in the middle of nowhere. Maybe it was that Blaine had hurt both of them - one physically, one in the heart.
Blaine knelt down next to the man. "Please don't be freakin' dead," he muttered. "I don't need that."
"Christ almighty, son, what was that for?" the man murmured wearily. "I think you broke my arm."
Blaine stared silently. The man was alive, he should just run. But he couldn't.
"Well, what are you waiting for? Help me to my bed."
"Sorry," Blaine muttered, helping the man to his feet and assisting him back into the room from which he had emerged in the first place. He laid the wounded man on the bed within as best he could. One of his arms was at a strange angle.
"You know, boy, you could have just knocked. No need to creep around like that."
The man's sarcasm was getting on Blaine’s nerves, and this, combined with the obnoxious pity he felt for him, made for a venomous mood. "Shut up, old man. Where's your wallet?"
"Ah, a thief, are you, son?" The man smiled faintly through the pain. "My wallet's in my coat, in the wardrobe."
"Look, old man. I'm taking your money and leaving. I'll call you an ambulance, but if you tell them who I am, I'll be back."
Blaine’s threat was meaningless and they both knew it. He roughly hauled open the wardrobe and began searching through it for the coat with the wallet.
"It's in the leather one, with the buttons," the man told Blaine.
Blaine wordlessly continued his search.
"Hurry up. This arm isn't getting any less broken." There was silence besides the rustling of clothing. "Ah, yes, I forgot to introduce myself. The name's O'Donnel. Winston O'Donnel."
"Don't care, old man."
"Look, son, I know you think you're some big shot thief. Take my wallet if you want, go ransack my home. But you'll regret it someday."
"Yeah, right."
"It's true."
Blaine paused in his search and turned to face Winston. "And how would you know?"
"Because, son, I was once a thief like you." Winston struggled into a sitting position, his broken arm laying limply beside him. "I thought I was something else. Thought I was some sort of hero, supremely talented and wiser than any of my victims. Then they caught me. Put me away for 5 years."
"They won't get me. I'm too good for them."
"That's what I thought, too. And I still somehow thought it when I got out, and so I resumed my old ways. It didn't take them nearly as long to catch me that time. And so I decided to quit when I was released. It was the best decision I ever made."
Blaine could see the earnestness in Winston's face. His voice had the same tone Blaine's father's always had when he'd nagged him to do his homework,a voice that was disapointed in you because it knew you could do better.
"So, I stopped stealing. I worked as a farmhand. Eventually I saved up and bought this house. I had to almost rebuild the entire thing. It was incredibly satisfying. Listen to me, son," Winston reached out and placed a hand on Blaine's arm, "dishonesty is no way to live. If you can't live by your own sweat, then you aren't really living at all. Sometimes I wish I'd gone to college and become a doctor or something. I wish the work I did got me more out of it. But I didn't, so I live alone in a small cottage, working the earth. I never wish I'd stayed a thief. Son, I want you to leave here and go. Take whatever you think you'll need, but go and make yourself a real life."
Blaine turned away. "You're crazy, old man. I'm not going to just walk away from here."
"Like I said, son, take what you need."
Blaine shook his head. "That's not what I mean."
He walked across the hallway and picked up the phone.
"Hello? Police? There's been a robbery. Come quickly."
He hung up before his mind could change, and waited for his world to change. It already had.