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about bad stuff doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen.’
    I knelt and opened the bag carefully, sticking my hand inside. The cat’s head lolled out, limp and lifeless. I jumped back and shrieked.
    â€˜Geez, what a girl,’ Benji said. ‘Give it to me.’
    He pushed me aside and crouched over the cat, lifting the head gently. Its eyes were closed and it looked peaceful, like it was asleep. I’d had nightmares about its eyes being open, and was terrified that if I tore apart the bag it would be staring at me. Benji felt around its neck for a collar and discovered a small blue nametag.
    â€˜Oscar,’ he read. ‘Twelve Paige Street.’
    We spoke little as we walked, the cat in the bag swinging between us. I started to feel like I worked for the government, and was going to tell someone that their son had died at war. We arrived at the address to find a cosy little bungalow with a small front yard and no fence. As we walked up the path to the front door my heart sank. On the stairs was a plastic water dish, kitty litter and a ceramic food bowl, some tuna still in it. I rang the bell. The door opened and a young woman stood in front of us, a friendly smile on her face.
    â€˜Yes?’ she said politely. ‘Can I help you?’
    â€˜Do you have a cat called Oscar?’ I asked.
    â€˜Sure do. Didn’t come home last night. Don’t tell me he’s been pestering you for food? He’s such a cheeky boy.’
    I handed her the bag. I explained how Oscar had been hit by a car, and told her he had not suffered.
    The woman cried but she was brave and tried to hide her tears by smiling through them. She stepped forward and hugged me, then Benji, who cringed.
    â€˜You are both such good kids,’ she said. ‘Good kids. Thank you so much for bringing home my baby.’
    She closed the door, and Benji and I started the long walk home. I didn’t feel like a good kid. I knew we had done the right thing, but something was niggling inside, a worm burrowing its way through my core. I hated to admit how exciting it had been to stand outside that dumpster, breathing the fetid stench of the cat’s remains. The smell was familiar, comforting, like something I’d lost but never knew I had in the first place.
    It could have been my imagination but I was sure Benji had lingered a while in the darkness of that dumpster, taking his time before returning to the fading sunlight of the afternoon. I watched him as we walked together. He was immersed in thought, staring at his sneakers as they hit the pavement. Like archaeologists excavating a tomb, Benji and I had crossed over an unspoken boundary, and emerged forever changed by the experience. He looked at me, eyes ablaze, and somewhere a dog howled in the distance. I knew I had found a kindred spirit.

FIVE
    After saying goodbye to Mrs Connor, I left their house and made my way home. The warm air coupled with the start of summer vacation had brought people out of their houses. Across the road a couple walked a teacup poodle on a thin lead. A group of kids skated past me, the wheels of their boards making a long, rolling sound like an incoming wave, building to a crescendo then disappearing as they sped away into the shadows.
    My mind wandered. I looked into the windows of houses, some dark, others illuminated by the light of television sets. I thought about the Manson Family. On nights like this they would go out and do what they called a ‘creepy crawly’. A group of four or five Family members would target a house entirely at random, break in and proceed to ‘creep’ around the place. The idea was to move around the house unnoticed, making sure they didn’t wake the occupants. Occasionally they would take something, like cash if it was left lying around, or food to feed the Family back at the ranch. But it was more about moving around undetected, the excitement and power that came with infiltrating