“Let me see it,” the boy asked.
“No,” she said tersely.
“Come on, why can’t I see it?” he whined.
“Because you’re too little.”
“I’ve seen that stuff before.”
“Then why do you want to see it so badly?”
“I don’t.”
“Okay, so then I’m not showing you.”
The boy paused: “I’ll split my peanut butter cups with you.”
The girl took a second to mull it over.
“Nah…” she let the syllable hang like she was still considering, “I want both peanut butter cups.”
“Deal,” he said, handing over the sweets.
She devoured them both in front of him.
“Okay,” she smiled, “let’s go to the shed.”
She led him along a narrow stone path that ran between her house and the neighbors’ fence. The shed loomed over in the corner of the backyard. It didn’t look inviting. The girl grabbed the handle and turned it counter clockwise. She went in first, and the boy followed.
Inside smelled like mouse droppings and must. Hammers and wrenches hung off nails and an old piece of plywood stretched between two sawhorses served as the workbench. The girl felt under one of the sawhorses and pulled out a little brass key. She walked over to a rusted chest and jammed the key into the lock. With some finagling it clicked open.
“You ready?” she asked. The boy looked at her and nodded.
“Remember,” she said “you can’t tell anyone.”
“Okay, okay,” he said.
The girl lifted the lid and the boy peered inside.
“How did your dad get that?”
“Said he found it on the beach when he was a kid,” she answered.
“Did he ever try to find the owner?”
“Nope. Every time I ask him, he always says: “It’s nice to have an extra hand around the house.”