The clock on the built-in microwave showed 1:05am as Brad quietly moved through the kitchen. He was headed for the quietest of the first floor doors. He paused in front of the large glass pane and was still. He was looking for any sign of life over at Wilson's; any movement, any smoke from a grill, any low sound of chanting. Wilson was an odd duck, Brad thought. Nothing. Coast was clear.
Brad moved through the door.
Brad swiftly and smoothly walked the short distance to the bushes at the corner of their yard. Wilson's house was on his right, the open street was in front of him. The only sound was a slight wind and Bradley's breathing.
Brad stepped out from the cover of the bushes and started his walk down his street. He moved quickly passed the front of Wilson's house — still no sign of him — and he made his way towards downtown. The socks he put over the paints cans that he had in his backpack were keeping things as muted as possible. He had to get out tonight, he had to burn off some energy, he had to feel alive.
He didn't care about the pot, not really anyway. His parents had actually been pretty cool about the whole thing. Brad laughed when he thought of how Nick O'Carley's mom chased him out of the house with a broom when she just thought she smelled marijuana on him. It turned out to be marigold, Nick worked in a greenhouse.
The cold sidewalk was free of ice and snow. The pavement looked almost soft in the moonlight. His shoes felt connected to the Earth as Brad took a sharp right hand turn at Fu Wong's and started downhill, towards the patch of dark woods at the bottom.
The buildings on the side street were mainly light industrial. It was an impossibly quiet night. It was so pleasing being out, all alone, seeing his breath rise. It was also like being under glass. Brad almost felt like he was being watched. It wasn't an alarming sensation however, it was exciting; it was like a call to play by some unseen playmate.
When Brad hit the end of the dead street he stopped and looked both ways. Another street, an industrial backroad of sorts, ran perpendicular to all the side streets in this part of town and parallel to the train tracks. No one else was around. Somewhere far behind Brad came the sound of a passing car; the tires gave off a cold, solid hum.
Brad crossed the street and stepped into the thin tree line.
Litter and leaves brushed against his shoes and pants cuff. He felt like he was making enough noise to be heard for miles. He stood still. He almost expected to hear a dog bark somewhere in the night. No sound. He quickly made his way up the very short rise of stones and onto the tracks. Again he looked both ways. He knew that there were three cars on a small spur about half a mile down the line, further away from home and turning slightly away the road. It was bright enough to see where he was stepping. It was never dark enough to use a flashlight. Not for this.