Two weeks watching the police lot. Three days practicing on padlocks. One night spent sleepless on the park bench two blocks away.
They had the RV and a station full of caffeine-riddled men with guns. He had his clothes, his own lock picks, and a bag full of practice padlocks. The odds weren’t good. But that was alright, he thought, because the odds didn’t matter.
Four weeks ago his father had been pulled over on the edges of Wichita. On that clear skyed Sunday the police finally managed to track something to the RV and the man within. The news reported on the arrest and the money, fake documents, and odd trophies stacked inside their makeshift home. The press called him something different with each new discovery. The bottle of rare aged bourbon tucked between the kitchenet seat? His father was suddenly a gentleman thief. The plastic stacks of driver licenses hidden in the microwave, an enigma. The checks from the retirement home in the glove compartment, a monster.
Miles away in someone else’s downtown apartment, he’d been blissfully sleeping off the weekend. That morning he’d awoken to a voicemail from his estranged sister. His father’s single phone call had gone to her, not him. She’d called to say their father and her childhood home were in police custody.
Her childhood home, his current one. That fact, and several weeks of preparation, had led him to the park bench a block away from the lot. He stared up at dark sky and waited for the night shift to turn into the morning one.
The horizon began to lighten and he started moving. The police impound lot was not too different from any other, higher fences, more cameras. Once you snuck into one, you’d broke into them all. Four in the morning, everyone was tired. Less likely to notice a skinny kid hovering on the sidewalk.
Fifteen minutes to watch the guard blearily stare at a phone screen. Two minutes to pick the padlock behind his back, fingers deft with practice. Another second to close the lock after he’d slipped in.
The RV waited in the corner of the lot up against the wall of the station. The door was open, the dash hanging, its cabinets pulled out, the mattress in the back turned over. He didn’t bother with the ransacked. Instead, he worked open the hollow beneath the kitchen table, the hole in the wood below the bottom bunk, the space under the passenger’s seat.
He was after smaller treasures. The library book he’d never got to finish, dog-eared only a quarter through the pages. His sister’s old journal which she’d left in her hurry to vanish two years ago. Another set of picks, shining against leather worn by his father’s fingers. He stuffed them into his backpack and checked the color of the sky.
Half an hour to get through it, running his fingers over the old vinyl counters and pitted steering wheel. Five minutes to get back out, another to wait until the guard gave into boredom and returned to his phone. A minute to get over the fence. A final scramble and sprint back to the park and then far away.