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A figure, wrapped in a brown, tattered and stained blanket and carrying an old dingy carpetbag, worn spots visible in the dim moonlight, creeps along the top of the building to the edge. From this height the cars cruising down the highway look like toys, models in a god’s train set. He grabs the harness that he stole from a window cleaner, slips himself into it and attaches the D-rings and lanyards, in what he hopes is the correct way, to the rope, which is stolen as well.

After attaching the rope to one of the many metallic pimples strewn across the top of the building, he throws the rope over the side. The windows make a deep ping as the rope smacks against them on the way down. He closes his carpet bag, slides it’s handles over his arm and sets himself down on the edge. As his legs dangle over the edge of the building, he feels the tingling, heaviness in his legs and the increased heart-rate both a reminder of his dislike for heights.

Grabbing the rope, his knuckles already turning white from loss of blood-flow, he turns himself over and starts his descent, using his legs and hands to slow himself. Counting the floors as he drops by them, he stops suddenly and hurls a small piece of a broken spark-plug at a window. The window instantly disintegrates, literally jumping at the chance to free itself from it’s 74th-story prison, raining tiny pieces of glass onto the floor of the office and the street below.

Kicking off the window frame, he swings himself away from the building and then through the hole where the window stood only seconds ago. He lands inside the office, the glass under his feet crunches under his weight. The square room is lit only by the reflections of the cars below, an L-shaped cherry desk littered with papers sits in front of the bank of windows, a leather chair, bordering on throne, sits behind it. He slides his bag off of his shoulder and sets it on the floor, disconnects the rope from his harness and attaches it to the bag.

He pulls an old oil lamp out of his bag, it’s brass covering green with years of neglect. He strikes a match, lights the lamp and sets it on the floor, the flame flickers in the breeze coming from the broken window. The dull glow from the lamp gives off enough light for him to see several paintings covering the walls, most of them giving the impression that they were chosen for size and not for artistic merit.

He slowly walks over to the desk and moves the chair aside. Reaching under his blanket he pulls out two paper clips, kneels down behind the desk and inserts them both into the lock of the bottom right drawer, they make faint scratching noises as he uses them to line up the tumblers and turn the lock. He slowly pulls the drawer open, flipping through the papers and pulling them out one at a time, so that he can view them in the soft light of his lamp.

The guards freshly shined shoes, like small black mirrors, make a clump as he walks down the hallway, stopping only so that he can admire them or for him to shine his flashlight into the occasional office and snoop. As he nears the end of the hallway, he sees a dim orange light under the door to the office of Mr. Simms. Tears run down his cheeks as his nose is abused by a horrible stench, a smell of rotten meat liberally sprinkled with coffee grounds and tea bags. He unbuttons his shirt and pulls it up over his nose as he reaches for his keys and unlocks the door.

With his nightstick in his right-hand and his flashlight in his left, he quickly pushes the door open. “Hello, Mr. Simms, are you in here?”, he says into the orangish darkness, shining his flashlight into all the corners of the room. He walks toward the desk and inspects the oil lamp, noticing the rope coming the through the broken window. A shadow moves across the wall. “Who’s there?” he says, his voice shaky. He hears a noise behind him but he can’t turn around fast enough to stop the intruder