The first two rungs of the ladder were fine, but as I moved lower to where the trees kept this side of the building shaded from the sun, the rungs became slick. By six feet down, I had to wrap my entire arm around each one, using the bend of my elbow to hold tight in case I slipped. I didn’t want to rely on just my hands, gloves or not.
A few more feet, a few more rungs. If I stretched just enough, I’d be able to touch the glass pane of the closest window. They were flush with the building—no ledge, no hinges, or other protruding hardware—and if they opened at all, they opened inward. But I’d expected that.
With some difficulty, I fished the brick out of my pocket, still with an elbow wrapped snug around a rung, holding my forearm tight to my body.
If I dropped the brick, I was pretty m
