The sky is a wide, empty bowl. The dirt is honest and still. But Barnaby Pringle was not on the dirt. He was sixty feet above it. He was crawling through a metal tube inside the Pentagon. The metal was cold. It smelled like old pennies and floor wax. Barnaby’s stomach felt like a sack of angry cats. He hated heights. He hated the way the air felt thin up high. Most of all: he hated that his knees were shaking like a newborn calf in a blizzard.
Barnaby was a thief. He was the best at taking things that did not belong to anyone. He took lost keys. He took loose change from the cracks in subway seats. He once took a kite that had been stuck in a tree for three years. But today: he was doing something different. He was here because of a man named Benny.
Benny ran a dry cleaner. He was a small man with a face like a crumpled paper bag. Benny had a deep wound in his heart. A man named Marcus had ruined him. Marcus was the President of the United States. Marcus had gone to Benny’s shop once. He left a three star review on the internet. He wrote: “The starch was okay. But the man behind the counter looked at me funny.”
That review was a poison. It killed Benny’s business. People stopped coming. Benny’s wife: Trudy: left him for a guy who sold organic kale. Benny wanted blood. Or: at least: he wanted the President to have a very bad day.
Barnaby reached a grate. He looked down. The floor was miles away. His vision blurred. He felt a cold sweat prickle his neck. He wanted to cry. He wanted to be back on the ground where things made sense. But he needed the money. He needed to pay off his father’s old ranch. He needed to save the land from the bank. He squeezed his eyes shut. He thought about the red dirt. He thought about the smell of rain on dry grass.
“Get it together: Barnaby,” he whispered. His voice was a dry croak.
He pulled a plastic bag from his pocket. Inside were two blue socks. They were identical to the President’s lucky socks. But these socks were damp. Benny had soaked them in lukewarm pickle juice and sink water. They were heavy. They were cold. They were gross.
Barnaby used a tiny tool to unscrew the grate. It made a sharp *clink* sound. He froze. He waited for the sirens. He waited for men in black suits to come and kick his ribs. Nothing happened. The hallway below was empty. It was 3:00 AM. Even the leader of the free world had to sleep.
He lowered himself down a silk rope. His hands burned. His heart hammered against his chest like a trapped bird. He landed on the carpet. It was soft. It felt like walking on a giant: expensive poodle.
He crept toward the President’s dressing room. He saw the locker. It was gold. It had a big eagle on it. This was where the lucky socks lived. Marcus wore them every day he had to talk to China or Russia. He believed they gave him power.
Barnaby reached for the handle. His fingers were slick with sweat. He felt a sudden: sharp pain in his chest. It was the fear. It was the weight of the sky pressing down on him. He wasn’t just a thief. He was a man who didn’t belong anywhere. He was a ghost in a suit.
He opened the locker. There they were. The real socks. They looked soft. They looked dry. Barnaby grabbed them. He stuffed them into his bag. Then: he pulled out the damp ones. He placed them neatly on the shelf. They sat there like two dead: wet fish.
Suddenly: a light clicked on.
“Who’s there?” a voice boomed.
It was a guard named Silas. He was six feet tall and built like a brick outhouse. He had a flashlight that shone like a second sun.
Barnaby didn’t think. He didn’t breathe. He just ran.
He didn’t run for the door. He ran for the window. He forgot he hated heights. He forgot his knees were made of jelly. He crashed through the glass. Shards of window flew like diamonds in the dark.
He was falling.
The air rushed past his ears. It sounded like a freight train. He felt the sudden coldness in his gut. This was it. He was going to hit the dirt. He was going to be part of the ground forever.
But he hit the bushes instead. They were thick. They were prickly. They poked him like a thousand needles. He rolled onto the grass. He gasped for air. His lungs felt like they were full of sand.
He heard shouting. He heard dogs barking. He scrambled to his feet. He ran for the fence. He climbed it like a squirrel on coffee. He didn’t look down. He only looked at the dark woods ahead.
He made it to the get-away car. Benny was waiting.
“Did you do it?” Benny asked. His eyes were wide. He was shaking.
Barnaby threw the dry socks at him. “Give me my money: Benny. I never want to see a sock again.”
Benny hugged the socks. He laughed a high: crazy laugh. “He’s going to squish. Every step he takes tomorrow: he’s going to feel it. Squish. Squish. My revenge is complete.”
Barnaby drove away. He drove until the city was a small light in the mirror. He drove until he saw the flat horizon of the west.
The next morning: the news was on the radio. The President was giving a speech. He looked uncomfortable. He kept shifting his weight from foot to foot. He looked like a man who was walking on a swamp. He looked like a man who had lost his soul.
Barnaby sat on the porch of his old ranch. He looked at the dirt. He looked at the big: blue sky. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a single: dry thread from the President’s real socks.
He let the wind take it.
He didn’t feel like a thief anymore. He felt like a man who had finally put his feet on the ground. He watched the thread dance away. It looked like a tiny: white bird. It looked like it belonged to the air.
But Barnaby? Barnaby belonged right here. He stayed on the porch until the sun went down. He didn’t look up once. He just watched the shadows grow long over the hard: honest earth.