“Holy cow!” I exclaim. “I bet these are worth a crap-ton of money.” I pick up a small white card that has one line on it in gold typeface:We’ll always have Paris.“Interesting.”
Wesley eyes the card from opposite me, reaching for it. “May I?”
I hand over the card, trading him for the emerald ring. The metal is cold as I slide it over my finger, mentally pressingplayon the scenario of standing on the Pont des Arts in Paris while a man on bended knee proposes to me with such a ring. Below us, the Seine glitters.
“This is extraordinary,” I murmur, trying on the bracelet.“We have to check the others. What if there’s treasure in one of the other spots, too?”
Wesley nods. “We should definitely check them all.”
•••••••
IT ISN’T LONG BEFOREI’m regretting that bottle of water I chugged right before we left. I order him to stay put on the bank of a stream while I find somewhere to relieve myself. Paranoid he’ll see me from across a football field’s worth of distance, I get hopelessly lost in the weeds and don’t stumble my way back for thirty-six minutes. Wesley rises from his designated rock on the riverbank when I emerge, face white with panic. His hair is a mess, like he’s been running his fingers through it nonstop. I notice he has rerolled his sleeping bag to compress every molecule of air from it and tucked it into the top of his pack along with the many bells and whistles he’s also reorganized during my absence. “I was about to go looking for you! I was prepared to get slapped for it, too, depending on what you were doing when I found you, but there arebearsaround here. Don’t wander so far.”
I wield my trusty can of bear mace that I pray I won’t have to use, smiling. It hurts. My left cheek said hello to a briar a little too closely and got clawed. “I’m all good!”
“Here, you should put on more bug spray. It’s been a few hours.” Wesley starts fussing with Off! Deep Woods and a creamy green ointment that smells powerfully of mint. I wrinkle my nose as I slather it on, but it’s not good enough for Wesley and he makes me slather it on even thicker until I’m head-to-toe green goop. I’ve never felt so unattractive in my life. Wesley stands back, appraising me with satisfaction. “It’ll keep the ticks off you,” he says, painting himself into Shrek.
“I smell foul.”
“Better than getting Lyme disease.” He tosses me a canteen of water. Wesley puts conscious effort into avoiding single-use plastics and wouldn’t be caught dead with Aquafina. “Drink all of this, so that you don’t get dehydrated. We’ve got a long hike ahead.”
“Thank you, Eagle Scout.” I pat his shoulder in a friendly way. His shirt is damp with sweat. “You too, mister. Have a canteen.”
“I drank two of them while you were gone. Do you want to sit for a while? Take a break?”
“I’m ready to keep going if you are.” There’s no stopping me now. I’ve got gold fever. “Gimme that map.”
He gives me the map and a granola bar. “To keep your blood sugar stable until we stop for lunch.” He tries to be discreet about watching me eat it to make sure I finish the whole thing, but his long legs propel him at a brisker clip and being ahead of me, he has to keep twisting to see what I’m doing.
I can’t even pretend to be annoyed—it’s just so nice that someone cares. I peel the granola bar open, savoring it in tiny bites.
It takes close to two hours to reach the second X on the map, leading us to a long-abandoned rail yard. The metal detector is useless here, with scrap metal all over the place making it scream its head off. We toe aside unattached rails, pick up spikes and drop them into the weeds. Axles. Piston rods. A crushed lump of metal I’m calling a whistle, even if it isn’t. We complain about mosquitoes and how it shouldn’t be this warm so early in May until we’re sick of each other and ourselves. Then, marvel of marvels, I find our hard-won loot inside an old switch lantern with its blue lens busted out. Probably from all the rocks we’ve kicked.
“This can’t be it,” I say, holding up the treasure. It’s a cassette tape.
“Has to be. There’s nothing else here.”
Also, the only marking on the tape’s label is the letter X, in blue pen.
“Maybe it’s a decoy,” I reply slowly. “Maybe somebody got to this treasure before we did and replaced it with a cassette tape.” I can hear my incredulity. “For some reason.”
“Maybe it’s unreleased Beatles recordings,” he replies mysteriously.
I brighten, giving his forearm a series of rapid pats. “Hey! What if it isn’t music: what if it’s asecret murder confession?” I rack my brains, trying to remember where the Zodiac Killer lived. “Are there any famous unsolved murders around here?”
“Let’s keep going,” he suggests, plucking the tape from my fingers. “Maybe we’ll find something better at the next spot.”
We break for lunch on a soft hilltop, the heat of the day swelling to a crescendo. Our peanut butter and jelly sandwiches are warm and mushy, but I’ve worked up such an appetite that I inhale mine in three seconds flat. I didn’t pack enough water, so to ration it out Wesley offers to split a canteen. Every time it’s my turn to take a swig, I get the world’s most pathetic thrill out of knowing our mouths have both touched the same spot.
Getting up after my legs have had a chance to rest is torture. “Aghhhh,” I groan.
Wesley gives me a once-over. “You want to sit for a while longer?”
“Nope.” I meet his concern with obstinacy. “Unless you’re getting tired.”
“Pshhhh.” He grins, and off we go. I have to grit my teeth for the first few minutes, before my muscles loosen up and cooperate again. My back isn’t as compromising.
I shift the weight of my pack for the tenth time in as many minutes. Wesley’s slightly ahead of me, so he shouldn’t have noticed, but he tugs it off my shoulders, slinging it over one arm to lump my burden with his. I try to protest, but he shakes his head.
