“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 a secret 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.

There are biting winds in my hollow chest cavity now. Sharp, silvery arctic winds. A crush’s physical effects are just as intolerable as the emotional ones.

We find the third X at two thirty in the afternoon, in a wishing well. It isn’t a proper wishing well. It’s a decorative lawn ornament, with cute wooden shingles and a charming bucket you can pulley up and down. When we come upon it, the bucket’s at the bottom. We crank it up, set aside clear plastic operating as a protective cover, and lift out two plastic-wrapped photographs.

One of the photos is of Uncle Victor, before he got sick, standing in front of the mirror that’s built into the white wardrobe in the living room. His clothing and the salt-and-pepper hair tell me it was taken in the eighties. He’s squinting with a Polaroid camera held up to one eye, flash brightening as he presses down on the shutter release. His other hand is in front of him, pointing down at the floor. The other photograph is exactly the same, identical down to the ghostly lens flares, except Victor’s pointing upward.

I get full-body chills.

“This is weird. I think Victor knew a little more about this whole treasure legend than he was letting on.” I shake my head in disbelief.

Wesley’s not studying the photos. He’s watching me. When I look at him, he scrubs his hands over his face, messes up his hair, and groans into his steepled fingers, “I have a confession to make.”

Oh no. For a moment, the possibility that this is all made up, that Wesley put these treasures here, floats to the surface. But then he shows me the card from the first treasure: We’ll always have Paris. There’s print on the back, which I didn’t look at before.

hollywood ice, finest celebrity imitation jewelry. the casablanca collection.

My jaw goes slack. “So the jewelry is . . .” I can’t bear to finish the thought.

He bites his lip, rueful. “Fake. Yeah.”

“Casablanca . . . That movie’s in Victor’s VCR.”

“Violet watched it every year on her wedding anniversary. I knew as soon as I saw the card that this must have all been planned by Victor. I’m thinking he buried it a long time ago, to lay the groundwork for a buried treasure urban legend. Either that or he thought of all this while he was sick and got someone to help him. A gift for Violet, to find after he died.”