Free In Stone by Louise D. Gornall Page A

sidewalk.
    The rain is coming down hard and heavy. It stings as it whips against my face. We keep going higher and higher, passing window after window. Large windows, big glass squares that you could easily pass an elephant through. We stop at the one and only window that’s the size of a mailbox slot. This is our entry. I know this because his tail goes slack and slips from my waist.
    “There’s no way.”
    “The other windows don’t open,” he calls back over his shoulder. With that he slams his fist into the wooden frame of our little window, and it pops right open. “It has to be this one. We’ll go one at a time. Grab on to the ledge.”
    What ledge? There is no ledge. There’s a thin snippet of rotten wood, pretending to be a ledge. By my standards, there is no ledge.
    “One foot at a time. Grab the window and pull yourself through. I’ve got you.”
    “Ah ha.” I nod into his neck. My warm breath splashes against his cold, rain soaked skin, creating soft wisps of steam. I know what he wants me to do, but my body doesn’t appear to be moving. We wait a second. I’m still nodding, still making ‘ah ha’ noises. We wait more seconds.
    “Beau, the ledge,” he urges and rubs my arm. “I’m not going to let you fall. I swear.” I open up, my arms trembling as I peel them apart. The “ledge” is only a couple of feet away. I can do this. I can do this, I tell myself before I reach out. With a stretch and noise that sounds a lot like the bark of a seal, I snatch hold of the window and place one set of toes on the ledge. Jack cups my backside with his hands, giving me a boost up, and I wriggle my way through the window. I hit the floor, belly first. The wind rushes right out of me. My face is hovering a couple of inches above solid blue, glitter-blasted linoleum.
    It’s a restroom. A man’s restroom. I’m staring at off-white porcelain urinals. The smell of stale pee forces me to my feet, and I dash over to the sink. I’m not sure if it touched me, but I’m not taking any chances. I start scrubbing at my hands and splashing water on my face. Through the smoggy reflection in the mirror, I watch as Jack slips through the window -- feet first -- and lands on the floor with the prowess of a cat. He dusts his hands off as he eyeballs me.
    “What are you doing?”
    “Wiping pee off me,” I grunt. He grimaces and hisses an unlucky note through clenched teeth. And we’re moving again.
    “You move so quickly,” I tell him as we make our way toward the door.
    “It’s a gift.”
    “Another one?”
    After giving the corridor a quick scan, we scurry up it like rats. The lighting is low, moody. Perfect for a couple of amateur felons. There’s no one around. Apart from the soft pad of my boots against rough carpet, it’s quiet.
    Every time we reach a door, we throw our bodies back against the wall and only continue when we know the coast is clear. It’s all very intense. The good sort of intense that makes your heart throb and your body buzz. A rock concert. A rollercoaster.
    “This is it,” Jack whispers as we arrive at the second-to-last door on the corridor. There’s a gold sign that reads ‘storage’ pinned to the front of it, and this old-school keypad, with chunky buttons, knobs, and no digital display. Jack starts stroking his chin.
    “Hmmm…this wasn’t in any of my books,” Jack murmurs, shaking a pointed finger at the keypad. He tries the handle. The door doesn’t budge.
    “Okay,” I breathe. “What exactly does that mean?”
    “I don’t know how to get inside,” he replies nonchalantly, as if we are talking about something mundane like the weather.
    “What now?” I question. Jack presses his ear up against the door.
    “I think there’s someone in there,” he informs, clearly excited at the possibility. “How heavy do you think security will be up here?”
    “I have no idea.”
    “Best guess?”
    “Best guess?” He nods his head.
    “I guess if they have guards on the