...Sometimes rules are meant to be broken.

I can tell by the look on his face I've scared him, my own face probably revealing shock.

"Mom, Coach sent me home. He thinks I'm coming down with something," he calls in a voice thick with mucus. He stops in the doorway of the kitchen and looks in at me where I'm standing over his dead mother.

A box with instructions to just heat and serve lays on the floor beside her.

He's coughing and sniffling and I don't doubt his mother would've made him some chicken soup and brought it to him while he played video games in bed. "Who...?"

I'm thinking the same thing, I thought that was it, there were no more people in the house.

We stare at each other, and I instinctively grip the kitchen knife tighter that I'm holding in my left hand. My muscles flex as I do so and I see his Adam's apple bob up and down as he swallows. He looks to be about the same age as my little brother Ryan, twelve, but judging from the lower register of his voice, I put this kid at around fourteen, ten years younger than me.

He said Coach, and I wonder what sport he could've possibly participated in-he wasn't very big, not like the muscular guy wearing a university T-shirt who tried to beat the crap out of me upstairs with his lacrosse stick. I figure the two must be brothers, though because they look so much alike. They both have this thick black hair and green eyes that stand out against skin that's kind of dark. Mixed, yeah that's what Mom would've called them.

On my way in I stopped long enough in the living room to take in the pictures. The father, a black man in a military uniform, was dead, as I gathered from the obit stuck in the frame with his photo. Something to do with his plane colliding with another during an air show.

Upstairs, there was also a little girl who I think was about ten. She didn't look like her brothers, but was a spitting image of her blonde mother. She'd picked up the phone, probably like she'd been taught in school whenever she found an intruder in her house, to call for help. I got to her before she could.

"Hey," I say all friendly-like, as if we've been buds forever. I'm really not sure what else to say.

He doesn't answer. His eyes flick down at his mother then up at me-an average size guy, with shaven dirty-blond hair and what I think is an intimidating tattoo of a scull on his left bicep.

He's got his mouth partly open as if he's not sure if he should scream or return my greeting. He opts to do neither.

I quietly scold myself. This is what I get for waiting too long. I was supposed to come shortly after 10 a.m. when everyone would surely be at work and school, but had gotten hung up with Mom. She locked herself in the bathroom and wouldn't come out or answer the door. That was a little before eight and it took me almost an hour to jimmy the lock open. Poor Ryan had to go pee outback behind a bush. Getting the door opened proved to be the easiest part. I couldn't bring myself to walk out on her like that, naked and scared looking. I helped her back to her bed, no longer flinching at the sight of her two little breasts or the feel of them against my hand when I accidentally grazed them as I reached down to lift her up off the toilet seat. Her legs had gone dead by then and I had to wrap my hands around her waist from behind and drag her back into her room like you would a dead body or something.

She wanted me to stay with her, the scared look on her face relaxing a bit when I agreed. I gave her the pills that were supposed to help fight her depression or whatever the hell else she had, but think cutting them in half like that to save on prescription costs probably didn't help her any. I read to her from one of Ryan's textbooks he left behind. We learned about the Greeks and their wars, all pretty interesting stuff. If I could go back to school again, not just for my GED, but back to a regular classroom, I'd pay attention this time.

When her eyes finally shut, my own blurry and heavy from all of that reading, I slipped out the room. Without thinking I went straight to the fridge, my growling stomach guiding me. I shut it quickly, ashamed for having forgotten there wasn't much in there. There were two hotdogs and two spoonfuls of red Jell-O. Ryan would want it all for dinner, and that would hardly be enough. Listening to my stomach instead of my conscience, I opened the fridge and ate one of the hotdogs before picking up the wiggling pieces of Jell-O and sucking them down like oysters.

I looked at the calendar and counted the days until Dad's child support check for Ryan would come: two to go. The money would only be enough for another week's groceries, if that. Standing there in front of the open refrigerator, taking in the bare shelves, I thought about looking for another job. The last job I had they caught me stealing and fired me. I knew other places wouldn't likely hire someone with a record like that. Add in that most places required a drug test before hiring, and I was screwed. I've been pretty much clean for the past couple of weeks, but I know some of that stuff I took at that party a few weeks ago is still floating around in my system.

By the time I grabbed the keys to the 15-year-old Ford and drove over to the ritzy neighborhood a half-hour away, it was after five.

I've broken into homes before and it gets easier each time. I don't think about this snobby family who has more than they could ever imagine as I sneak around to the back of their cookie-cutter, two-story home. I think instead of our rent that's past due and seeing my brother go through the neighbor's trash. I don't really care what he eats, but it's embarrassing seeing him do that. I'd rather he go shoplift a ham or something instead of digging in other people's garbage. I can do alright with one meal a day, but my brother's got it in his head he'll die if he doesn't get all three.

We deserve just as much as the next guy. That really burns me that some people get all the breaks, and then hard working people like me and Mom, when she was right in the head, get stuck with zilch. It's not fair.

That thought ran through my head as I walked around a pool and slid the back door open. Stepping inside I smelled potpourri and something else that could only be dinner. My stomach growled as I quickly made my way toward the kitchen.

I shift the knife to my other hand only because it's getting all sweaty in my left. The kid takes this for something else and makes a little noise in the back of his throat and jumps.

"Everything's okay, relax," I say to him, but for my benefit as well. He reminds me of Ryan the way he's standing there with his eyes wide like that.

"Do you guys have any cash around here?"

The kid doesn't say anything, but stares at me with those green eyes of his that border on scared and pissed-off. His mother had the same color eyes and hers had been full of hate until I stuck the knife in her a few times, and then they had changed to fear. Upstairs the brother had called me a few choice names as he swung at my head and arms, but I got him back. He looked afraid the whole time. The little girl had kept her eyes closed and wouldn't stop screaming.

That's my rule. If by chance, I do run across someone and they scream or attack me, I have the right to fight back any way I have to. I think it's a fair enough rule. It's not flawless because most people are likely to fight or flip-out, it's human nature, but it does apply sometimes. I had this one old lady a few months ago who went into her closet quietly just as I asked her to do, only asking for a glass of water before I locked her in. I brought it to her gladly. Maybe I wasn't the first person who'd robbed her that week, (she'd only had a few bills and junk jewelry, it was possible) and she was used to it. Whatever the reason, she'd been quiet and hadn't tried to stab me with her knitting needles. And so she'll probably live for another 100 years.

The kid doesn't make a peep. I'm getting a little irritated now what with being hungry and all the blood crusting over on my hands.

"I know you can talk, I just heard you." Didn't the little punk see my big knife? But Ryan would do the same thing, pull the silent treatment on me whenever he thought I was treating him unfairly or asked him to do something he didn't want to do.

Still nothing. "What's your problem? Cat got your tongue?" It's one of those questions Dad would ask Mom when he was still living with us, before we knew she had serious mental problems. She'd never answer, just shake her head and keep crying.

He looks back up at me, defiantly, but still obviously scared.

Fine, if he doesn't want to talk, it's no sweat off my back. I stand there with a smirk on my face because I am king. Hell, I'll play his little game for now. I'll leave him alone, let him take everything in, see what he's going to do.

He glances down at his mother before fixing those eyes back on me. I know he's seeing my blood splattered sweatshirt and stained kitchen knife I was about to clean off before he came in.

His mother had put up a hell of a fight and I wasn't able to keep her blood off me. I'd surprised her, of course. She must've just gotten home from work because she was still wearing this black pants suit and an apron over it. An apron. I hadn't seen anyone wear one of those since I saw a re-run of a 1950's TV show.

The kid suddenly turns and runs. I didn't think he'd do that. Usually I can see it in their eyes, a realization that they could be next, something. He's not that easy to read and it takes me a second to get my legs going. I catch up to him easily enough, though. If he'd headed back out the door, then I probably wouldn't have been so lucky, but he had gone away from the front door and was pulling open another one by the stairs. I grab him from behind, prepared to use my knife if he gets too out of control. He only puts up a little bit of resistance, grabbing for the door with his arms and legs before relaxing and letting me drag him back to the kitchen. He'd been trying to get to the basement. I don't know why, and can only think of stories I've heard about people running back into burning buildings because they were so confused or in shock.

I'm a little pissed, and glare at him as I sit him down in a chair. He doesn't meet my eyes, but focuses on my chest instead. "Don't do that again," I say because apparently he doesn't know who's top dog here. I pull out my most prized possession-a pair of handcuffs. I did a lot of drugs when I was younger before I decided to get cleaned up, and I don't remember how I got them, but I've been telling the story that I killed a cop for them. It could've been true, but I think I would've taken his gun too. I don't have one of those.

He stares straight ahead and still doesn't say anything as I connect his left wrist to the refrigerator door. He starts sniffling, and I think this is when he'll start losing it. My stomach tightens. If he starts bawling I'm not going to be able to handle it. No matter how much of an asshole Ryan can be, I can't stand it when he starts crying. He'll sometimes cry when he's really hungry or when Mom flips out and busts his lip open with her wedding ring she still wears.

But luckily there are no tears, just the sniffling. I forgot he has a cold, or whatever the hell it is. I leave his other hand free, thinking he might want to get a snack or something. I'd always wanted something to eat after school. Can't say there was always something there, but I do remember there was that need to eat something after a full day of sitting in classrooms, chewing on pencil erasers.

I glance at the clock above the stove. I've been here more than a half-hour already. I really need to step up the pace, it's not wise to hang around like this. Things will go faster if I have help. I'd asked Ryan, he'd be home from school by now, but he's funny about stuff like this. Sometimes he'll be all gung-ho about helping me out, and at other times he'll turn his nose up as if he were too good for me.

He had this friend from school whose parent's practically adopted him, no doubt feeling sorry for us. They gave him their son's old video games he didn't play anymore and was always inviting him over for family functions. This year they took him school shopping and bought him everything he needed, sending him back home with bags full of new clothes and the twenty-five dollars Mom had remembered to give him to get new sneakers. The sneakers he came back with, that cost five times as much as Mom had given him, I would have killed for when I was his age. I could have played some serious ball in those. He'd waste them though, using them to scuff-up the coffee table instead of the floor of the rec center where there was always a basketball game going.

One time, when I needed money to pay the landlord, I'd tried to take Ryan's sneakers to sell them. I made sure to wait until he went to brush his teeth before bed before going in to grab them. My timing was off. I'd stepped out of his room, sneakers in hand, just as he came out of the bathroom. He had a white toothpaste smear on his blue pajama top from where he had dribbled. Turns out he'd forgotten his floss that his adoptive family had given him. He saw me with his shoes that were hardly a month old and asked me what I was doing with them. I didn't answer, but threw them at him so they hit him in the shins and stormed out of his room, back to the sofa where I slept. He howled in pain, forgetting that Mom no longer came running to his aid whenever her baby sounded like he was in trouble. From then on Ryan never took his sneakers off. He even slept in them, his rubber soles sometimes peeking out from underneath his cover.

Yes, I could call Ryan and tell him to get his ass over here now, or else, but knowing him he'd say all right, and never show. Playing those friggin' video games no doubt. He hardly comes out of the house and can neither confirm nor deny there is a sun. To hell with him, I'll do it all alone again. He'll have to wait until his adoptive family comes back from their two-week vacation to get something to eat then because I sure as hell am not going to feed him with my money.

I leave the kitchen and walk by the kid's backpack he's dropped in the hall by the door and stop to go through it. I find a palm pilot, cell phone, and a pack of cigarettes. I don't think his apron-wearing mother would have approved.

"Hey, you got a light?" I call into him.

He doesn't answer. I go back into the kitchen, carrying the cigarettes with me. He's looking over at his mom. Some of her blood's run across the floor and his right sneaker is resting in it. I ask him again for a light. *Hey, kid, the king is talking to you,* I almost yell. He turns his head slowly and just stares back at me blankly. Yeah, he's in shock. I figure that's just as well, I don't like that brand anyway.

I go upstairs, stepping over the older brother who's lying at the top, and stuff the kid's backpack with small things that seem valuable-watches, cash, cell phones, stuff like that.

I head back downstairs, thinking of my next moves. I'll lock the kid in a closet, or basement if he prefers, grab a handful of cookies I'd seen in a bear-shaped cookie jar on the kitchen table, and be out of there.

He's gone. The empty handcuff is dangling on the fridge door. I hadn't thought to check to make sure they were secure. I slip a little on the bloody floor as I turn too fast to run out the room to find him. Then I hear a sniffle come from the basement. Just one quick sniffle that sounds like it's cut short.

I yank the door open and run down the stairs. The kid's standing with the rifle lined up perfectly with my head, his green eyes cold. I raise my hands to indicate I'm not going to hurt him or anything. I think of Ryan, and Mom as he pulls the trigger. ~