We hopped the fence into the backyard of the neighbors’ place. The whole yard was silent. No breeze stirred the sheets, pants, dried water lilies, shirts and undergarments hanging from the clothesline. The sliding glass door on the back porch was never locked and we stole into the darkness of the empty house and slid the glass door closed behind us, latching it. The neighbors were out at the lake for the rest of the weekend. Their house was silent, still. Dust had already begun to collect on the coffee table. I took you to the master bedroom and we went through the parents’ drawers. In the other rooms we sifted through the closets, pulled up the carpeting in the corners. In the hall we unscrewed the air-conditioning vents and shined a flashlight down the hollow aluminum tubes, whispering into the vents to hear our voices echo. In the attic we found old boxes of holiday ornaments and even a diary.