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sidewalk and motioned the kids over excitedly. “Hey, come look at this.”
    The older kid hesitated a little bit. I couldn’t wait for him to go. All I needed were a few seconds.
    He went.
    I shot out from my hiding place, straight for the Reese’s. The younger one screamed, but it was too late. I was already dumping the basket into my pillowcase.
    I couldn’t get it all because the older kid heard the scream and started to run back. Above all, I feared that their parents might come out.
    But we still got about half of that candy, and I split it with Tewolde once we were several blocks away.
    I couldn’t have known it then, but that older kid would one day be my best friend.
    Several Halloweens after we pirated the Reese’s, our friend Kiros from the Sudanese village joined us in Wheaton. He would make Tewolde and me look like Mother Teresa.
    Kiros lived with us for a few weeks and then relocated next to our Cambodian and Vietnamese refugee brothers down on Route 38, in the yellow-and-redbrick apartments that house most of Wheaton’s refugees.
    We wondered, “Is he still crazy? Does he still climb huge trees and launch missiles down onto unprotected heads?”
    Soon after he arrived, Kiros and I sat in the basement of my family’s home, playing
gifa,
a card game we had learned in Sudan. Playing led to cheating, cheating to yelling, yelling to card-throwing, and I arose, ready to defend myself. Kiros was no bigger than me.
    But he leaped up and grabbed a plastic baseball bat. Swinging it wildly and threatening injury, he lunged at my head. He was still crazy.
    After Kiros moved down to Route 38, we did not see him as often. Sometimes he vanished for weeks, even months.
    But each October 31, no matter how long it had been, his thick afro always greeted us at our door after school. How he beat us home, we never quite figured out, since our schools let out at the same time and he had much farther to run. I guess he feared that we would start without him or forget about him.
    The three of us started on our way. Was it us or my parents who refused to let Mehret come along? Probably my parents, since they are
habesha,
and
habeshas
never let their daughters do anything.
    Rounds one and two merged into one with Kiros along. Tewolde egged us on:
    “See that basket full of Snickers and Milky Ways inside the porch? That porch door looks open to me. I bet you it is — who locks their porch in Wheaton? I dare you to sneak inside and get that basket, man. Look at all those candy bars. I dare you. Do it if you’re a man.
    “Watch out, Selamawi! Kiros is in! He’s pouring the candy into his pillowcase. Run, dude, run! She’s coming! He’s got the basket and the fat white woman chases him. Goo-ye! Run before her husband comes! Run before the police find us! Run or our lives will be lost! Change blocks! Jump the fence!
    “Are you crazy, Kiros!? I was just kidding! All right. At least share some of that candy for all of the running we had to do because of you.”
    We did many deeds that were downright dishonest, but we only felt guilty about one. And we didn’t even mean to do that one.
    We had approached a house and rung the doorbell, and when that didn’t work, we started to knock on the door. Was anyone there? It was one of those long, narrow, single-level homes near the railroad tracks, and most of the lights were off.
    Tewolde and I started to leave. “Wait,” Kiros said. “I see her coming. She’s coming very slowly.”
    The old woman hobbled to the door, peering outside before opening it. She held an aluminum tray of candy bars.
    We bowed respectfully to her and put on our best smiles. In our culture, we never harm the elderly. We revere them. We rise and give them our seats if they enter a room. We refer to them in the plural, never the singular, for they have the wisdom and deserve the respect of many.
    I went first and took one piece of candy, just like she said. No Reese’s, but my second-favorite, Snickers.