It’s 3 a.m. Saul sits in the parking lot, hidden behind a rust-flaked dumpster. He takes short sips from a metal flask, raising his arm to and from his lips in a mechanic rhythm. The harsh burn of cheap whiskey causes a wince on his otherwise blank face. He welcomes the sensation. It isn’t pleasant, but it’s something.

Saul passes the flask along without looking the next drinker in the eyes. He clears his throat dryly. The other three sip quietly as the flask makes its rounds.

A light dusting of snow blankets the weathered pavement, barely covering the small piles of glass—four of them in all—shattered and shimmering in the cold light of the winter moon.

Saul concentrates on his breathing. In-out, in-out, in-out. It is robotic in its regularity. He told himself that he would need to calm himself down, but now finds that there is no need. He knew there wouldn’t be. That’s why he’s here. There is no pit in his stomach; the whiskey sits easily, a feeling of pleasant fullness like after a childhood meal cooked by his mother. He is not so much calm as he is clear. Clear and full of anticipation.

In the past few weeks he has carefully gone over every scenario of this night in his head. They will wait until they hear the telling shatter of a window. Then they will silently and swiftly take their rightful vengeance upon the thief.

It can’t fail. The man is a criminal being caught in a criminal act. He won’t be able to call the police on them, he can only take the punishment he deserves for breaking into their cars. They won’t kill him; their blows will only be aimed at his lower half. It’s justice in the truest sense of the word. It will feel good, he tells himself. I will feel good. It can’t fail.

3:15 a.m., the stillness of the parking lot hangs on them like a shroud. They have been here for two hours now. They grip their baseball bats with numb fingers, getting to know every imperfection of the wood’s grain.

Saul knows he will come tonight. It is Thursday—the small dive bars that line the narrow street are packed with punks and pseudo-intellectuals. Every week for the past month the thief has taken advantage of their upper-middle class illusions of safety, breaking into their shiny sedans while they party, blissfully unaware of the life of the street outside. He will come tonight and Saul will be waiting.

At 3:19 a.m., the piercing sound of breaking glass shatters the stillness. Saul jumps to his feet, pumping adrenaline that cancels out the pins and needles which threaten to deaden his legs. The high fills him with hope. This is it. This is how people feel.

He is the last to round the corner of the dumpster, holding the bat awkwardly as he chases after the blur in front of him. It is like a foreign object in his hands; fingers senseless from the bitter cold. The discomfort doesn’t bother him. He knows that it will all be worth it once the flush of the event hits him.

The car is only a few yards from the dumpster. Though everything else rushes with the muted colors of darkness, Saul sees the thief in the clarity of a moment frozen in his mind.

The man, tipped off by the crunching of their feet, is halfway out the car clutching the door as he springs from the backseat. Glass rains down from what remains of the cracked window as he makes his hasty departure.

A large, soiled jacket hangs from his emaciated frame—the kind of coat that a construction workers would buy at Walmart and then withstands decades of use in blistering northern winters. His well-worn Nikes probably haven’t been replaced since the mid ‘90s, bearing cracked leather and a dirty-brown hue on a canvas that was once white.

His mouth is partly agape—displaying yellowed teeth coming in at all angles, with several conspicuous holes in their snaggled rows. His large black eyes gleam in the cold light like those of a doe caught in headlights, displaying a determination to escape, but also confusion at the approaching gang of young men who are not police.

Saul can feel the dull thud of bat striking knee in his chest. There is no cry of pain. No scream. Just a yelp like an old dog being beaten.

It is impossible to tell who lands the first blow, but the man falls immediately, and they descend upon him.

The swings are not full; the bats are raised to chest level and then brought down onto thigh and knee and hip and shin. Saul watches the scene as if disconnected from his body, hearing the packing noise of flesh and wood. He looks down into eyes that stare back up at him—quiet, wide; resigned to the pain like a man who has been afflicted with hardship all his life.

And then it is over. They sprint down an alley to their car, bats in hand and cold air singing their lungs. Saul quickly takes his place in the driver-side rear, rolling the window down in unison with his friends to avoid fogging up the glass.

A silence rests over the car with nothing but the whistling of cold wind and humming of the engine filling in the blanks. The clock glows; 3:24 a.m.

In the front seat, the driver tenses and slackens his muscles as an excited smile flits across the corners of his mouth. His passenger sits still, staring into his lap, sad eyes glistening with choked-back tears. To his right, Saul notices nervous glances being made at the sideview mirror, anticipating the red flash of a police cruiser that never comes.

Saul adjusts his gaze to the seat in front of him, pacing his breathing from the run. In-out, in-out, in-out. He is not full of the sense of accomplishment that he had expected. There is not even the pit of sorrow or regret in his stomach, only the false warmth of the whiskey. He pulls the forgotten flask from his jacket pocket and empties the rest of its contents into his mouth. It trickles warmly down the back of his throat, and he winces reflexively. He only feels the cold of the winter night washing over his face.