by L Mari Harris Matthew Smith We test every door knob, give them a little twist. When we find an unlocked door, we slide in, palm the loose change by the TV, slip a couple of smokes from the open pack, and slide back out. Every room’s the same yard sale furniture, same habits, same stale smell of oil and sweat and occupancy of one. Nessa-Don’t-Call-Me-Vanessa and I have been thick as thieves ever since she and her dad moved into the room next to ours. My dad calls us the Tri