Born To Be Your's

Chapter 5

The Copper house was silent, a rare, fragile state achieved only after midnight. It was 11:30 PM. The twins and Mark were long asleep, and even Laura, utterly drained by the day, had finally succumbed. The night outside was black and cold, promising the snow Francis had warned about.

Blake lay on his bed, fully dressed in dark clothes, listening to the silence. Travis was a lump in the top bunk, quiet but awake, his nervousness a palpable energy in the small, cramped room.

“Ready, Trav?” Blake whispered, his deep voice barely audible.

Travis’s whisper came back, strained. “Yeah. Just don’t look down on the bridge, okay?”

“I’m not looking down,” Blake confirmed, pulling a cheap pair of leather work gloves onto his hands. “You look down, you freeze, and we both end up on the frozen lawn, getting lectured by Paul on proper load distribution. Stay low.”

Blake slid silently off the bed, grabbed two empty duffel bags, and nudged the chair under the window. The cold from the glass was instant and sharp.

He smoothly unlatched the window and eased the heavy glass frame up. He pushed his six-foot frame out, stepped onto the narrow, four-foot-long wooden ledge running beneath the window, and crouched. The air was frigid, but the adrenaline was already warming him.

Directly in front of him was the famous Copper Bridge: a thick, seven-foot board, laid precariously across the gap between their ledge and the spare bedroom window of Paul and Francis's house. It was the preferred access route for the neighbors whenever they locked themselves out—which was often—and it was now their quiet exit.

“I’ll go first,” Blake instructed, testing the board with his foot. It groaned, settling into place. He didn’t hesitate, moving with the agile control of a gymnast, stepping onto the plank and crossing the gap to the adjacent roof edge. He was followed by Travis, 5’7”, who moved with less confidence but equal necessity. From the neighbor's lower roof, they quietly dropped to the ground and moved into the alley shadows.

Their target was a new construction site near the river. Ten minutes later, they were scaling a weak section of the chain-link fence, having bypassed the need for the sewer tunnel.

They moved like shadows. They found a stack of thick copper wiring spools near an unlocked service shed.

“Jackpot,” Blake muttered, his eyes glinting in the dark.

They worked quickly, Blake cutting the wiring, Travis feeding the heavy, coiled metal into the two duffel bags. It was a viciously efficient crime, and Blake found a grim, intellectual satisfaction in the execution.

Suddenly, a loud, panicked barking erupted from the far side of the site.

Blake froze instantly, low to the ground. "Dog. Stay down."

A harsh flashlight beam cut through the darkness, sweeping across the construction zone. The beam passed right over their heads, shielded only by a stack of insulation foam.

"Who's there?" a gruff voice yelled. "I hear a you!"

Travis was trembling, gripping Blake’s jacket. Blake waited until the light passed.

​“We’re done,” Blake hissed, pushing the last spool into the bag. “Grab your bag. We’re taking the main fence.”

​“The main fence? Blake, it’s seven feet!” Travis whispered, terrified.

​“It’s faster. And it’s the way they won’t expect us to go.”

​They raced across the muddy lot, the heavy bags slapping against their legs. They reached the tallest section of the chain-link fence. Blake, powerful and agile, scaled the fence like a spider, pulling himself over the barbed wire top with a grunt. He landed silently on the outside.

​“Toss the bags!”

​Travis threw the bags over, the heavy copper clanging on the frozen asphalt. Blake quickly retrieved them, then looked up.

​Travis was frozen halfway up the fence, silhouetted against the dark sky. “I can’t do it, Blake! It’s too high!”

​The dog started barking again, much closer this time, and the flashlight beam was rapidly approaching their position.

​“You have to, Trav! Now!” Blake hissed.

​With a desperate surge of adrenaline, Travis scrambled over the barbed wire, tearing his jacket in the process, and dropped hard onto the ground beside Blake.

​“Run!”

​They ran, scrambling through the alleys until the sound of the barking and the angry shouting faded into the distant hum of the city. They didn't stop until they reached the relative safety of their neighborhood.

The dangerous part was the return trip. The weight of the copper made the duffel bags feel like anchors.

They reached Paul and Francis's house. Blake, strong and adept, shimmied up the drainpipe, securing himself onto the spare bedroom roof. He hauled the two heavy duffel bags up using a length of rope he carried, his muscles burning with the exertion.

Travis followed, his movements more strained, but he made it.

Now for the bridge. The board looked smaller, thinner, and the drop to the frozen yard looked impossibly far.

“I’ll go first,” Blake instructed, slinging the two heavy bags of copper over one shoulder, using the weight to anchor himself.

He stepped onto the seven-foot plank, the board dipping slightly under his weight and the bags. He focused only on the four-foot ledge of their own house, moving with precise, measured steps. He reached the ledge, tossed the bags, and secured himself.

“Your turn, Trav. Don’t look down. Don’t look at the bags. Just look at the window,” Blake commanded.

Travis, pale and shaking, swallowed hard. He stepped onto the board. Halfway across, he wobbled, his breath catching in a panicked squeak. The copper bags were now waiting like a reward just inches away.

“Steady, Trav,” Blake whispered, holding his hand out. “You’re fine. Keep moving.”

Travis stabilized, took a desperate final step, and stumbled onto the ledge, collapsing against the cold wall.

Blake pulled the younger boy up and eased the window open. They slipped back inside the bedroom, the sudden darkness and warmth of the room a profound relief. They secured the window and collapsed onto their bunks.

“That… that was close,” Travis gasped, clutching his side.

“Fifteen hundred dollars worth of copper in those bags,” Blake corrected, already calculating the profit. “Close enough.”

Blake lay in the darkness, the high of the crime quickly fading. The money was secured. He had bought them another month of breathing room, another month of maintaining the impossible architecture of their family life.

He stared at the plywood ceiling, listening to Travis's ragged breathing subside. He had survived the day, and the money was secured.

The sun was barely above the horizon when Blake slipped out of the house, leaving Travis and the heavy duffel bags slung over his shoulder. He wore his black thermal shirt and jeans, looking like he'd been awake for days, which was essentially true. The cold air was sharp, biting the bruise on his jaw.

He headed straight to the pawn shop across town, a place that didn't ask questions and paid decent cash for high-grade scrap metal. Blake didn't haggle; he stated the price, used his cold, flat gaze to dare the owner to argue, and walked out with more cash than he'd expected—enough money to cover the rent hike, pay the electric bill for two months, and stash a decent emergency fund. The twohundred dollars from Old Lady Barbie felt like dirty pennies compared to the weight of the copper cash.

On his walk back, feeling the flush of victory and temporary solvency, he saw a white rental van—the kind laborers used—parked haphazardly in front of Paul and Francis’s house. He stopped mid-stride. Paul and Francis were unloading a beat-up wooden bed frame from the back.

Blake walked up, a smirk playing on his lips. "I thought you were kidding about fostering a kid, Francis. You two barely foster the garbage in your own kitchen."

Paul, his massive, ex-military frame straining under the weight of the wood, shoved the bed frame out of the van. "Yeah, well, you know Frankie. You tell her no, she definitely hears yes." He looked at Blake, his eyes lighting up. "Here, you got those muscles. Give me a hand, Copper."

Blake, the dutiful neighbor, tossed the money from the pawn shop into his pocket and grabbed the other end of the bed frame.

They hauled it upstairs into the spare bedroom, the same room Paul and Francis usually rented out for quick cash, and where Francis was setting up a small, chipped nightstand and a lamp. The walls were painted a pale, faded pink, clearly a color chosen by the previous tenants.

As they dropped the frame, Blake surveyed the room. It was sparse and clean, but the pink walls were jarring. "You getting a boy or a girl? Because if it's a boy, he's going to hate the wall color. You might want to invest in some grey primer."

Francis shrugged, pushing the nightstand against the wall. Her fiery orange hair, a stark contrast to the pale pink, seemed to vibrate with restless energy. "Don't matter. As soon as we get enough money to pay off my student loan, they're either going back into the system or they'll age out and can fend for themselves."

Blake chuckled, shaking his head at their transparent mercenary logic. "What if you get attached? You two are big softies underneath all the meth-lab candle schemes."

Francis stopped, her green eyes fixing him with a cynical glare. "Why do you think we got a moody teenager? They’re too smart, too old, and too screwed up to need their hands held. We’re not dealing with a baby, we’re dealing with a cash machine."

Blake, though suspended and exhausted, stuck around to help move the remaining boxes and books. Francis kept talking, reveling in the details of her scheme.

"This particular kid is a goldmine, Blake. They've been in and out of foster homes seventy-five times in the past eleven years. The government pays extra for 'difficult' placements. They're basically paying for my nursing degree."

Blake’s brilliant, cynical mind immediately went to work on the numbers. Seventy-five placements in eleven years. That was roughly a new placement every 1.7 months. That level of turnover wasn't just 'difficult.' It meant this kid was either incredibly troubled, a genuine psychopath, or so damaged that they incinerated every attempt at stability.

He nodded slowly, helping Paul secure the mattress. The chaos was about to get a new tenant, one funded by the state, and one who was likely as screwed up as the Coppers, only without the benefit of familial loyalty.

Blake finished the job, took his thanks, and slipped back across the bridge to his house. The chaos of his own home suddenly felt safe and predictable compared to the ticking time bomb Francis and Paul had just purchased.