He felt embarrassed when Trevor climbed back over and helped him get on top of the relatively low barrier. Pigeon dropped to the grass on the far side, and Trevor landed beside him a moment later.

“This place is scary at night,” Nate said, running his hand along the top of a worn old headstone. In the buttery glow from the rising moon, the fading inscription was legible. “This guy died in 1906. Just about everybody alive now hadn’t even been born yet.”

“There’s lots of old graves,” Trevor said.

“Especially on this side of the graveyard,” Nate said. “They still have empty land way over that way.” He waved a hand in the direction he meant. “The gravestones are more recent over there.”

“Where’s Hanaver?” Summer asked.

Nate looked around. “Mom and I came in through the front, so I’m a little turned around. Follow me.” He started weaving among the shadowy tombstones until he reached a narrow paved road. They continued along the road to an intersection. Nate paused, looking around.

“I know where we are now,” Nate said confidently. “I remember that tomb with the angels.” He took the road that curved up a gentle slope. As they rounded the bend, Nate started trotting. “There it is,” he said, pointing.

The tombstone for Hanaver Mills was as tall as Pigeon, and wider than it was tall. It looked old, but his name remained deeply inscribed in commanding letters. Beneath his name were the years 1821–1893, along with the words “Father—Inventor—Philanthropist.”

“What’s a philanthropist?” Trevor asked.

“It means he donated money to charities,” Pigeon said.

Around the back of the tombstone stood the Forty-niner, looking creepier in the darkness than he had under the sun. “Did you find Margaret Spencer?” Summer asked.

“I looked around a bit, but didn’t see her,” Nate said. “I figured eight eyes would be better than two. I didn’t want to ask anybody from the cemetery, since we were going to be digging up her grave.”

They fanned out. A few minutes later, Summer called out, down the slope and farther from the road. The others hurried over. Margaret Spencer had a more modest, traditional tombstone—about waist-high, narrow with a rounded top. The inscription had almost weathered away, and a few thin cracks zigzagged across the surface. Her name and the years she lived were barely legible.

“Good eyes,” Nate said. “Let’s go get the Forty-niner.”

Nate and Trevor returned to Hanaver’s headstone and lugged the wooden miner down to the other gravesite. “Should we take the Melting Pot Mixers now?” Pigeon asked.

“Maybe we should wait until we get more of a hole dug,” Summer said. “It might take a while, and the mixers only last an hour.”

“She should have given us more than one each,” Trevor complained.

“We definitely want them on the way home,” Nate said. “I think we should wait. If somebody comes, we can always take them quickly.”

“Except you,” Trevor said. “You’ll be unconscious.”

“Good point,” Nate said. “I better take mine now, just in case.”

Summer unzipped a pocket of her jacket and gave Nate the little ball of chocolate. She passed Melting Pot Mixers to Trevor and Pigeon as well, so they would have one when they needed it. Nate ate his, and after a moment started convulsing. He doubled over. When he stood upright, he looked like a full-blooded Native American. His face was darker, and though some similarities persisted, the transformation had structurally altered his features.

“You guys be lookouts,” Nate said. “I’ll want Trevor to stay by me while I dig. Stay low. With that moon, people could see us from the road.”

“I want to do the cool part this time,” Summer said. “Not keep watch again.”

“Mrs. White said I’m supposed to work the miner,” Nate reminded her.

“Not digging, that’s no fun either. I want to get the box out of the coffin.”

“Be my guest,” Nate said. “We’ll call you when we get there. Summer, you watch the little road, and Pigeon, you watch the main one. If you see trouble, hoot like an owl.”

“I’m not sure that would fool anybody,” Summer said.

“Just make that the signal if you need one,” Nate replied. “We don’t need something as piercing as the whistle.”

Nate and Trevor huddled into the shadow of the largest tombstone close to the Margaret Spencer gravestone. Summer moved in the direction of the little cemetery road and squatted behind an eight-foot obelisk. Pigeon snuck down the slope toward Saddle Road, taking up position behind a wooden supply shed.

Before long, Pigeon heard the sounds of a shovel penetrating and flinging earth, along with the occasional scrape of metal against stone. The sounds were so quick, they could have come from multiple shovels, but he never actually heard two at once, and Pigeon knew the only digging tools they had were the little shovel and pickax of the Forty-niner.

Pigeon watched the field of tombstones before him, the wall, and the dark road beyond. The rhythmic sounds of digging became hypnotic, but the tension of possible discovery and the eeriness of the setting helped keep him alert. As time passed, he recited the U.S. presidents to himself, first in the order in which they had held office, then alphabetically. Pigeon was starting on vice presidents when he saw a car cruising slowly along Saddle Road, the headlights messing up his night vision. Crawling so that the shed was between him and the road, Pigeon hooted. The sounds of shoveling had already ceased.

Pigeon leaned out, peeking around the side of the shed with half his face. The car had stopped. He was almost certain that it was a police car. Suddenly a bright light glared in his eyes. Pigeon hid his head behind the shed. A bright beam of light began sweeping the area.

“You behind the shed,” crackled an electronically magnified voice. “Come out with your hands in the air.”

The beam of light returned to the shed. Pigeon popped the ball of chocolate into his mouth, and a moment later his flesh began to ripple. “I saw you, come out from behind the shed. Don’t make me come in after you.”

“Go,” Pigeon heard a low voice urge from up the slope.

The rippling had subsided, leaving Pigeon looking Latino. He stuck a Sweet Tooth in his mouth and stepped out from behind the shed, hands held high. “I’m just a kid,” Pigeon yelled.