Amos inched forward, crawling on his elbows and knees through the dust that kept billowing up into the tight confines. The stale air swirled through the metal tunnel around his head and body. The dust that didn't get into his eyes seemed to collect and settle in his mouth, his nose, and even his lungs. The urge to clear his throat was growing, and he was not sure how much longer he could hold back what was sure to be a fit of coughing.

  Suddenly, there was a loud whaup-bang as the sheet metal beneath Amos sagged under his weight—then snapped back into place with a dull metallic thump.

  Amos froze. He was nine feet above the floor, hidden in a ceiling air duct in the hallway between his apartment and the apartment across the hall. The loud bang from the vent did not seem to raise any alarm. He listened for voices or any doors opening to investigate the sound, but after several tense minutes that seemed much longer to him, Amos began to crawl forward once again.

  He pushed his elbows and knees to the edge of the vent where there was more support and began to inch forward, but this time with less noise. Anything to avoid being heard; if anyone noticed him, he would be trapped up here until they tracked him down and hauled him out.

  His stomach suddenly betrayed him without warning—a loud, rumbling gurgle that was becoming a persistent reminder that he had not eaten in days. Amos was starving, and sharp hunger pangs were now a constant companion, but so far this was something he mostly felt rather than heard.

  The rectangular lines of light just ahead grew brighter as Amos crawled toward the end of the suspended tunnel. He passed a much bigger duct that ran perpendicular to the one he was in now. This must be the main supply that fed into all of the apartments along this floor. He was glad to see it; he knew if he couldn't access the apartment at the end of the duct, then at least he could inch backward and use this larger tunnel to turn around and escape rather than crawling backward the whole way to his apartment.

  Once he got to the dusty grille at the end of the ductwork, he craned his neck up and then looked down through the narrow metal fins to confirm his exact location. Lying before him was the apartment that belonged to Ms. Murphy, an older resident who had lived in the building long before he was even born.

  At first glance, it looked neat and orderly. Old-fashioned, pristine furniture pieces were in the places you would expect them to be, but in almost every other space, there were boxes and bags neatly piled against the walls, under the furniture, and even on top of the shelves and tables. This apartment appeared to be a goldmine of... of what exactly, he did not know yet, but he was determined to find out.

  His heart was thudding with excitement. His forehead glistened with sweat, and his shirt was damp, sticky, and dusty from his slow crawl through the ceiling, but there it was: untended and unguarded, just as he had hoped. He listened carefully for any sounds, but he knew that she had left more than fifteen minutes ago; he had heard her lock the door, slide the deadbolt closed with a rasping click, and set off down the hall.

  He had peered through the spyhole in the door and, with a fisheye view, had watched her swish by in her long black coat with empty bags clutched in her hands. She should be gone for another hour yet, so if he was going to proceed, it had to be done now.

  Amos pushed at one side of the grille and then the other. It was a pressure-fit type, just like the one in his own apartment, and after a few creaks and squeaks, he managed to push one end clear. Holding it out with one hand, he crawled forward. After confirming the couch was beneath his opening, he decided to tumble forward and onto the soft surface below.

  His shoulder hit the couch, and he allowed his momentum to roll his body onto the floor. He let the grate fall beside him and got up carefully, trying not to make another sound.

  No one came; he was alone. Don't freeze, he told himself, you must act. He took slow, silent steps toward the kitchen in his worn grey socks and opened the refrigerator. It was full of food—the exact opposite of the barren appliance in his apartment.

  Without thinking, he grabbed a loaf of white bread from the top shelf and devoured four slices in less than twenty seconds. There was a jar of peanut butter in the fridge as well. It was the smooth and creamy kind, and he did not hesitate as he took a spoon off the counter and swallowed several heaping spoonfuls, one after the other.

  The sweet richness was amazing in his mouth and, in his hunger, it seemed like he could not eat enough until, all at once, he realized that in his haste, he had eaten too much too fast. Now, he could not breathe. The peanut butter was stuck in his mouth and throat; he was almost completely clogged up.

  Gasping and gulping for air just made it worse. In a panic, he searched for something to drink to dislodge the peanut butter. Amos pawed through the fridge, grabbed a carton of milk, and took several messy gulps, forcing his lips to close around each mouthful of milk and pumping it down his throat. This seemed to loosen the peanut butter until, finally, he had swallowed it all.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  There he stood in the middle of the kitchen with peanut butter smeared on his lips and on the milk carton, milk running down his chin and dripping onto the floor. Once he had gotten his breath back, he took stock of what he had done.

  You idiot, he thought to himself, you complete and utter fool. This was a horrible start to a burglary. He realized that he would have to clean it all up as fast as possible. He worked slowly and methodically, and after a little while, he had cleaned up all traces of his sudden, messy feast and had put everything back in its place.

  After a quick glance at the clock, Amos decided he would allow himself another ten minutes to take what he could before fleeing the apartment. Pathetic, just pathetic, he admonished himself, angry at the time wasted on a bit of peanut butter which had taken a lot of time away from his real objectives.

  Working as fast as he could, he found a drawer of shopping bags in a lower cupboard and started to fill them. The kitchen was extremely well stocked; Ms. Murphy was obviously fearful of the shortages everyone faced these days now that “the difficult times,” as his mom had called the current state of things, seemed to be how it was going to be. Most people struggled with money and food, and it was clear from her stores that Ms. Murphy was determined not to go hungry.

  It was easy enough for Amos to pack two bags full of food. He was careful to take a few cans of pasta sauce, a few boxes of spaghetti, a couple of apples, and so on—never too much of any one item and nothing that would likely be missed. He rearranged items on the shelves he took from, hoping to minimize the appearance of any losses.

  With just two minutes to go before his planned departure, Amos decided to look quickly in some of the typical spots his mother had always used to hide valuables. He hoped that Ms. Murphy had used the same spots that almost everyone used: the backs of drawers or under the middle of the mattress in the bedroom.

  He crept into the larger bedroom. After mentally cataloging how the room and the bed looked so he could restore it later, he hefted the closest corner of the mattress up into the air and bent his head to look underneath.

  For a moment, he did not breathe; he just stared at what he had revealed. Row after row of neat bundles of money sat in little piles held together by rubber bands. He grabbed two piles on the end, taking care not to leave any gaps in the rows that would leave a trace of the missing stacks. Then he lowered the mattress back into place and smoothed the bedding neatly, just as he had found it.

  After grabbing the two bags of food and returning to the living room, Amos realized that he had made no plan for getting back into the vent. He could easily hoist himself up and in, but how would he restore the vent cover? With his feet? There was no chance that would work, and he absolutely had to get that vent cover back on without leaving a trace or any other signs that he had been there.

  In the end, he decided to push his bags into the vent and then crawl in afterward with the cover. Once inside, he listened carefully for any noise and, hearing none, he quickly crawled back toward the hallway intersection with the larger supply vent that allowed him to turn around.

  He risked making much more noise this time. Bangs, low thumps, and metallic creaks reverberated through the vent and sounded deafening to Amos, but he did not hear any footsteps in the hall or any doors opening to investigate.

  After turning around, he crawled back as fast as he could and reached out to replace the vent cover after having one last look at the apartment. All seemed to be in order, but just as he was pulling the vent cover into place, he heard a key sliding into the deadbolt. It gave Amos such a start that he almost dropped the cover onto the couch below.

  Amos heard the bolt slip back and then a second key enter the main door lock. Don’t panic, Amos thought. Don’t freeze up, you just need to leave now.

  His immediate problem was to restore the vent cover. He had pried it loose and pushed it out, but he had never tried pulling it in from behind. He carefully gripped the sharp metal sides with his hands and tried to bring it back over the opening.

  His fingers were caught in the duct opening between the vent cover and the hole in the wall. His damn fingers were in the way! He could not pull the vent cover tight to the end of the duct. He started to panic, worrying about dropping the cover and getting caught, or making too much noise and being chased through the vent by the landlord and Ms. Murphy.

  “Solve the first problem, solve the first problem,” Amos said to himself under his breath, forcing himself to focus on what needed to be done.

  As the apartment door swung open, he managed to switch his grip so that he angled one end of the vent cover to the side of the opening. Then, as he pulled it closed with one hand, he used his other hand and his outstretched pinky finger to poke through the grille and catch the face of the cover to pull that side into place.

  Just afterward, Ms. Murphy bustled into the front room and immediately shut the door, fastening all her locks and the door chain. Amos peered through the vent cover, watching the partial image of her as she shuffled her bags toward the kitchen.

  He waited silently, holding his breath and expecting an outburst of surprise or rage at any moment, but it never came. He just heard the familiar kitchen sounds of someone putting things away and setting something on the stove. Amos decided that with the noise and activity, it was a good time to retreat back down the vent and avoid detection.

  Once he was safely inside his own apartment, he took stock of his takings. He had accumulated a nice bit of food and some snacks as well—a far cry from the meager portions he had been eating for the past few weeks before he had run out of food entirely.

  The biggest prize was the money. After a careful count, he realized that he had close to eight hundred dollars between the two small bundles. This changed everything. He had not expected to find any money, and now to have this amount, after everything that had happened to Amos and his family, was an unbelievable turn of fortune.