Sleeping Giant Caches

The overhead fluorescent tube flickered. It was a harsh, stuttering rhythm that made Lenny’s eyes ache. He stood in the center of the Thunder Bay community pantry, a room that felt entirely too large for the three pallets of food left inside it. Summer heat pressed against the frosted front windows. The air conditioner had died on Tuesday. It was Friday now.

Lenny wiped a line of sweat from his temple using the back of his wrist. His skin felt gritty. He looked at the clipboard in his left hand. The inventory numbers were a joke. Six cans of generic green beans. Four boxes of off-brand macaroni. A single bag of rice with a tear in the corner, leaking white grains onto the cracked linoleum.

"Is that everything?" a voice asked.

Lenny turned. Mrs. Gable stood in the doorway to the back office, leaning heavily on her aluminum cane. Her face was gray, lined with the kind of exhaustion that didn't go away with sleep.

"That is everything out front," Lenny said. He kept his voice flat, trying not to let the panic bleed through. "I can check the donation bin by the loading dock. Sometimes people drop things off overnight. People who do not want to be seen."

"Do that," she said, turning away. "If we do not get a delivery by Monday, we close the doors. Permanently."

Lenny walked to the back. The heavy metal fire door pushed open with a loud, metallic groan. The loading dock was essentially a concrete slab baking in the July sun. The heat hit him immediately. It was heavy. Humid.

There was a single cardboard box sitting next to the industrial dumpster.

Lenny walked over to it. The box was ancient. The cardboard was soft, dark with old water stains, sagging inward. He grabbed the top flaps and pulled. The cardboard tore like wet paper.

Inside, packed tightly in yellowed newspaper, were cans. Not modern aluminum cans. These were heavy, thick steel cylinders with paper labels glued to the front. The ink was faded, but he could make out the illustration: a cartoonish lumberjack holding a giant peach. The text read: Superior Logging Co. Preserved Peaches. 1924.

"Who donates garbage like this?" Lenny muttered.

He reached in to pull one out. The can was heavy. As he lifted it, the bottom of the box gave way entirely. The wet cardboard split, and the contents spilled onto the concrete. The cans clattered loudly, rolling toward the edge of the dock.

Lenny dropped to his knees to stop them from rolling off. As he grabbed the last can, he noticed something else had fallen from the center of the box.

It was a book.

Small. Bound in dark, cracked leather. The cover was warped from decades of moisture. Lenny picked it up. The leather felt dry and fragile under his fingers. He opened the cover. The pages were stiff, fused together at the edges, covered in cramped, spidery handwriting in faded black ink.

He squinted against the bright sunlight.

October 14th, 1925. The strike holds. The company men came with clubs yesterday. We buried the remaining funds. The glass is sealed. The silver is deep. First marker is the iron wheel past the dead rail.

Lenny stopped breathing for a second. The strike. He knew about the lumberjack strikes of the 1920s. Everyone in Thunder Bay learned about them in middle school. But the strike funds—the money and goods the workers supposedly hoarded to survive the winter—that was a myth. A local ghost story.

He pulled his phone from his pocket. The screen was cracked diagonally across the center. He dialed Marie’s number.

She picked up on the second ring. "I am currently cataloging three hundred photos of dead trees for my thesis, Lenny. This better be an emergency."

"Are you at the library?" Lenny asked. He kept his voice low, looking over his shoulder toward the open fire door.

"Yes. Basement archives. It is freezing down here, and I am wearing shorts. I am suffering for academia."

"I need you to look at something," Lenny said. "I think I just found a map to the Timber Caches."

There was a long silence on the line. "Do not move," Marie said. "I am coming to you."

Twenty minutes later, Marie pushed through the front doors of the pantry. She wore a faded band t-shirt and cargo pants covered in deep pockets. Her glasses were pushed up on her forehead. She did not say hello. She just walked straight to the back room where Lenny had cleared off a folding table.

The leather journal sat in the center of the plastic table.

Marie dropped her canvas messenger bag on the floor. She pulled a pair of white cotton archival gloves from her pocket and snapped them onto her hands.

"You did not try to separate the pages, did you?" she asked, her eyes fixed on the book.

"I read the first page. That is all," Lenny said.

Marie leaned over the table. She gently touched the cover, tracing the cracked leather. "This is real. The binding is hand-stitched. Late nineteenth or early twentieth century. Where did you get this?"

"Donation box. Mixed in with a bunch of canned peaches from 1924."

Marie carefully opened to the first page. She read the entry silently, her lips moving slightly. Then she pulled a small magnifying glass from her pocket and examined the margins.

"Look here," she said, pointing to a small symbol drawn next to the date. It looked like a triangle with a line through it. "That is a lumberjack hobo sign. It means 'safe camp.' And this text... it is a mix of English and Anishinaabemowin. The writer was local. Very local."

"Can you translate the rest of it?" Lenny asked.

"Give me a minute," she said.

Lenny paced the small back room. The silence was heavy. The only sound was the gentle, dry rasp of Marie carefully turning the stiff pages.

"Okay," Marie said finally. She looked up, her eyes wide. "This is not just a diary. It is an inventory. And a ledger. They were stealing from the company store and burying it out by the Sleeping Giant. Food. Tools. And the strike fund. Silver coins."

"Silver?" Lenny asked.

"Vintage silver," Marie corrected. "In pristine condition. Uncirculated. If this is true, the historical value alone is astronomical. Let alone the melt value."

Lenny looked out the door toward the empty shelves of the pantry. "How astronomical?"

Marie followed his gaze. She understood immediately. "Enough to buy out the grocery store down the street ten times over."

"Where is the first cache?" Lenny asked.

Marie pointed to a line of text. "'The iron wheel past the dead rail.' There is an abandoned CN rail line about ten miles north of the city limits. It cuts right into the boreal forest. There was an old logging turnaround there. That has to be it."

"We need shovels," Lenny said.

"We need bug spray," Marie countered. "And water. If we go out there today, we are racing the sun."

"The pantry closes on Monday," Lenny said, his voice hard. "We do not have time to wait."

They packed their gear in silence. Lenny grabbed two rusty spades from the pantry's utility closet. Marie filled three plastic bottles with tap water. They threw everything into the back of Lenny's rusted 2010 civic.

As Lenny locked the back door of the pantry, he felt a prickle at the back of his neck. He turned around.

The alley was empty. Just the dumpster and the scattered, ancient peach cans. But the feeling remained. The distinct, physical sensation of being watched. He scanned the shadows between the brick buildings. Nothing.

"Get in the car," Lenny said, his voice tighter than before.

Marie looked at him, catching the tone. She didn't argue. She climbed into the passenger seat.

Lenny put the car in drive. As they pulled out of the alley, he checked his rearview mirror. A man stepped out from behind the dumpster. He wore faded work boots and a heavy flannel shirt despite the heat. He was staring directly at the car.

Lenny pressed the gas pedal down, putting distance between them and the man. He recognized him. Mr. Colsan. He used to be a foreman at the paper mill before it shut down last year. He had been coming to the pantry for the last three months.

He had been in the pantry this morning.

Lenny’s stomach twisted. Colsan must have seen the book.

"Did you lock the doors?" Marie asked, noticing Lenny’s white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel.

"Yes," Lenny said. "But I think we have a problem."

The Dead Rail

The civic’s suspension groaned as Lenny forced the car down the unpaved logging road. Gravel hit the undercarriage like bullets. The trees closed in on both sides, a dense, suffocating wall of spruce and pine. The heat inside the car was brutal. The air conditioning had never worked, and keeping the windows down meant inviting the black flies inside.

Lenny parked the car near a rusted yellow gate that blocked the road. Beyond the gate, the path narrowed into a foot trail overgrown with tall grass and ferns.

"This is it," Marie said, checking the GPS on her phone. "The old CN line intersects this trail about two miles in."

They got out of the car. The heat hit them instantly. It wasn’t just hot; it was heavy, filled with the smell of baking pine needles and damp earth. Within seconds, a swarm of black flies found them. They buzzed angrily around Lenny’s ears, a high-pitched, maddening drone.

"Put this on," Marie said, tossing him a bottle of industrial-strength DEET.

Lenny coated his arms and neck. The chemical smell was sharp, stinging his nostrils. He grabbed the shovels from the trunk and handed one to Marie.

"Keep your eyes on the ground," she warned, tying her boots tighter. "This is prime tick country. If you feel a tickle, check it immediately."

They climbed over the yellow gate and started walking.

The forest was deeply quiet, save for the crunch of their boots on the dry brush. The canopy overhead filtered the harsh sunlight into a green, murky gloom. Sweat rolled down Lenny’s back, soaking his shirt. His muscles ached from the tension. He kept looking over his shoulder, expecting to see Colsan stepping out from behind a tree.

"Stop looking back," Marie said quietly, not turning around. "If someone is following us, staring into the trees won't help. Just keep moving."

They walked for an hour. The trail grew steeper, the ground softer. They crossed a small, stagnant creek, the mud sucking at their boots. Finally, the trees broke, revealing a wide, linear clearing.

Two rusted tracks of iron ran parallel through the tall grass, half-buried in dirt and moss.

"The dead rail," Lenny said, his breathing heavy.

"Okay," Marie said, pulling the journal from her bag. She carefully opened it, reading the translation she had written in the margins. "'The iron wheel past the dead rail. Follow the rusted teeth to the hollow stone.'"

They walked down the tracks. The iron was hot to the touch. About two hundred yards down the line, Lenny stopped. Lying on its side in the ditch was a massive, rusted iron gear. It was half-submerged in the dirt, the teeth choked with weeds.

"The iron wheel," Lenny pointed.

Marie nodded. "Follow the teeth. Look at the gear. Which way are the teeth pointing?"

Lenny examined the massive object. The gear was set at an angle. The teeth on the upper half pointed directly toward a massive outcropping of gray rock in the tree line.

They left the tracks and pushed through the dense brush toward the rock. At the base of the outcropping, there was a deep depression in the earth, sheltered by an overhang of stone.

"The hollow stone," Marie whispered.

Lenny dropped his bag. He took his shovel and drove it into the dirt. The ground was hard, packed tight by a century of rain and snow. He put his full weight onto the heel of the shovel, breaking the crust.

Marie joined him. They dug in silence for twenty minutes. The pile of dirt beside the hole grew. Lenny’s hands were beginning to blister.

Suddenly, Lenny’s shovel hit something hard. It didn’t sound like rock. It was a dull, hollow thud.

He dropped to his knees and used his hands to clear away the loose dirt. A layer of thick, rotting canvas appeared. He ripped the canvas back.

Underneath sat a wooden crate. The wood was black with rot, but it was intact. Lenny pried the lid open with the edge of his shovel.

Inside, perfectly preserved in packed sawdust, were six large glass mason jars.

Marie gasped. She reached down and carefully lifted one out. The glass was thick and wavy. Inside, floating in a dark, syrupy liquid, were dark purple berries. The metal lid was sealed shut with a thick layer of hardened red wax.

"These are perfect," Marie said, her voice shaking slightly. "A hundred years old, and the seal is completely intact. Do you know what collectors pay for untouched prohibition-era preserves?"

"Look," Lenny said, reaching into the crate.

At the bottom of the box, beneath the jars, was a small brass object. Lenny wiped the dirt away. It was a pocket compass. The glass face was cracked, but the needle still moved freely. Etched into the brass back were coordinates.

"The next location," Lenny said.

"Step away from the hole."

The voice was loud, echoing off the rock outcropping.

Lenny froze. He turned his head slowly.

Mr. Colsan stood ten feet away. He was breathing hard, sweat pouring down his face. His clothes were covered in burrs and mud. In his right hand, he held a heavy steel tire iron. His knuckles were white.

"Mr. Colsan," Lenny said, his voice remarkably steady despite the sudden spike of adrenaline in his chest.

"Put the jar down, Marie," Colsan said. His eyes were wild, darting between the hole and the two teenagers. "Just put it back in the box and step away."

"You followed us," Marie said. She did not lower the jar. She held it tightly against her chest.

"I heard you in the pantry," Colsan said, taking a step forward. "I heard you talking about the silver. About the money. I need it."

"This belongs to the pantry," Lenny said, standing up. He kept his hands open, palms facing outward. "You know we are out of food. You know we are closing."

"I do not care about the pantry!" Colsan yelled. The sound startled a flock of birds in the canopy above. "My power gets shut off on Tuesday. The bank is taking my truck. I have a wife and two kids, Lenny. You are children. You do not understand what this is. This is survival."

"If you take these jars, what are you going to do with them?" Marie asked, her voice analytical, calm. "You do not know the right buyers. You will pawn them for fifty bucks. To a collector, they are worth thousands. You need me to sell them."

Colsan hesitated. He lowered the tire iron an inch. "You are lying."

"She is not," Lenny said. He took a calculated risk and stepped toward Colsan. "You want survival? We all do. The pantry needs the money to stay open. You need the money to keep your house. We split it."

Colsan stared at him. The silence stretched. The buzzing of the black flies seemed louder now.

"Split it?" Colsan asked.

"We found the first cache," Lenny said, holding up the brass compass. "This gives us the location of the main hoard. The silver. The real money. But we have to hike deeper into the Sleeping Giant. It is rough terrain. Bear territory. We need someone who knows the woods."

Colsan looked at the compass, then down at the glass jars in the dirt. His shoulders slumped slightly. The desperate, violent energy seemed to drain out of him, leaving only deep exhaustion.

"Fifty-fifty," Colsan said.

"Sixty-forty," Lenny countered immediately. "Sixty for the pantry. Forty for you."

Colsan looked at Lenny. He let out a harsh, dry laugh. "You have a lot of nerve, kid."

"Do we have a deal?" Lenny asked.

Colsan tossed the tire iron into the brush. "Yeah. We have a deal. Pack the jars. We have a long walk ahead of us."

The Sleeping Giant

The uneasy alliance shifted the dynamic entirely. Colsan took the lead, his pace punishing. He moved through the dense brush with an efficiency that Lenny and Marie lacked. He didn’t just walk; he read the forest. He broke twigs to mark their path, avoided patches of unstable ground, and kept them moving in a straight line toward the coordinates etched on the compass.

Lenny carried the backpack containing the six antique jars. They were incredibly heavy, the glass clinking softly against each other with every step. He had wrapped them in his spare shirt, but the sound was still there. A constant reminder of their fragility.

The terrain grew harsher. The flat, swampy ground of the boreal lowlands gave way to steep, rocky inclines. The Sleeping Giant loomed ahead of them, a massive formation of volcanic rock that dominated the peninsula.

"Stop," Colsan said suddenly, raising a hand.

Lenny and Marie froze. Lenny’s pulse beat hot against the tight collar of his shirt. He swallowed, his throat dry as paper.

Colsan crouched down, examining the dirt trail. He pointed to a large, fresh indentation in the mud. It was a massive paw print, easily the size of a dinner plate, with deep claw marks at the top.

"Black bear," Colsan whispered. "Big male. And it's fresh. The mud is still pooling in the track."

"Are we in its territory?" Marie asked, her voice dropping to a low murmur.

"We are walking right through its living room," Colsan said. He stood up and pulled a can of bear mace from his belt holster. "Keep your eyes up. Do not look at the ground. Look at the tree line. If you see it, do not run. You run, you die. Understand?"

Lenny nodded. The heat of the day suddenly felt cold.

They moved slower now. The silence was agonizing. Every snapped branch, every rustle of wind in the leaves, sounded like a massive animal charging through the underbrush. Lenny’s shoulder ached from the weight of the bag, but he ignored the pain. His focus was entirely on the shadows between the trees.

They hiked for another two hours without incident. The sun began to dip lower in the sky, casting long, distorted shadows across the rocks.

"We are close," Marie said, checking the compass against her phone’s GPS. "The coordinates point to a location right at the base of those cliffs."

They broke through the tree line and stood at the bottom of a massive wall of sheer gray rock. The rock face was jagged, covered in patches of dark green lichen.

"Look for a cave," Colsan said. "The loggers used to blast holes in the rock to store dynamite. If they were hiding a hoard, they would use one of those."

They spread out, scanning the base of the cliff.

"Over here!" Lenny called out.

He was standing near a massive pile of fallen boulders. Behind the rocks, partially obscured by a thick curtain of hanging vines, was a dark, jagged opening in the cliff face. It was roughly six feet tall and three feet wide.

Colsan walked over and pushed the vines aside. He clicked on a heavy-duty tactical flashlight. The beam cut through the darkness, illuminating a deep, narrow tunnel that sloped downward into the earth.

He inhaled. The air escaping the cave was dead, heavy with the metallic tang of wet dirt and decaying roots.

"This is it," Colsan said. "Stay close to me."

They entered the cave. The temperature dropped immediately. The air was cold and damp, a stark contrast to the oppressive heat outside. The walls were rough-hewn stone, marked by the century-old scars of pickaxes and drill bits.

Thick, rotting wooden beams supported the ceiling at regular intervals. They were black with moisture, sagging under the immense weight of the rock above.

"Do not touch the supports," Colsan warned, his voice echoing slightly. "They look like wet cardboard."

They walked deeper into the tunnel. The ground was littered with rusted debris: broken shovel heads, old tin cups, coils of decayed rope.

After fifty yards, the tunnel opened into a wider chamber. Colsan swept the flashlight across the room.

Lenny stopped breathing.

The chamber was a chaotic mess of history. Wooden crates were stacked against the far wall, many of them collapsed under their own weight. Blankets made of heavy wool, now half-eaten by moths, were piled in the corner.

But in the center of the room, sitting on a flat slab of stone, was a heavy iron lockbox.

It was the size of a footlocker, secured with a massive, rusted padlock.

Marie walked forward slowly, completely mesmerized. She approached the lockbox and brushed her gloved hand over the lid. "The strike fund," she whispered.

Colsan stepped up beside her. He didn't hesitate. He raised his heavy boot and kicked the rusted padlock. The metal, weakened by a hundred years of damp air, shattered instantly.

He threw the lid open.

Inside, packed in tight rows, were small canvas bags. Colsan grabbed one and tore the drawstring open. He poured the contents into his palm.

Dozens of silver coins tumbled out, catching the light of the flashlight.

"Silver dollars," Marie said, leaning in. "1921 Morgan dollars. Uncirculated. Look at the condition. They are flawless."

Colsan’s hand was shaking. He dropped the coins back into the bag. "There must be two hundred bags in here. This is... this is a fortune."

"Look at this," Lenny said. He was digging through a smaller wooden crate next to the lockbox. He pulled out a series of sealed glass tubes. Inside the tubes were dried seeds.

"Heirloom seeds," Marie said. "Corn, squash, beans. They were preparing to start their own farms if the company starved them out. These strains haven't existed in decades. Agricultural labs will pay a premium for these."

Lenny looked at Colsan. The man was staring at the lockbox, his eyes wide, his breathing shallow. For the first time, Lenny saw not a threat, but a man who had just realized his children were not going to lose their home.

"Grab the bags," Colsan said, his voice cracking. "Load them into your packs. We leave the lockbox."

Lenny took off his backpack and started transferring the heavy canvas bags of silver. Marie carefully packed the glass tubes of seeds into her messenger bag.

They worked quickly, the silence broken only by the heavy clinking of silver and the rasp of breathing.

Lenny reached for the last bag at the bottom of the lockbox. As he pulled it out, his hand brushed against something metallic. It was a heavy, iron crowbar, likely left behind by whoever locked the box.

He lifted it. As he did, the heavy iron bar slipped from his sweaty grip.

It hit the stone floor with a loud, sharp crack.

The sound echoed violently in the small chamber.

And then, a second crack followed.

This one did not come from the floor. It came from above.

Lenny looked up. The massive wooden support beam directly over the entrance to the chamber groaned loudly. A shower of dust and small pebbles rained down from the ceiling.

"Move!" Colsan screamed.

The Rotted Timber

The ceiling gave way with the sound of a tearing explosion.

A massive slab of shale detached from the roof, slamming into the rotted wooden crossbeam. The timber bowed inward, splintering with a deafening screech. A cloud of thick, choking rock dust instantly filled the chamber, blinding them.

Lenny coughed, his lungs seizing as the fine powder hit the back of his throat. He grabbed his backpack, hauling the impossible weight of the silver onto his shoulder.

"Marie!" Lenny yelled.

"I am here!" she screamed back. She was already at the entrance of the tunnel, her arms wrapped around her messenger bag.

The main support beam cracked again. The center of the wood splintered, buckling downward under the weight of the rock. If the beam snapped, the entire entrance to the chamber would collapse, burying them alive under thousands of pounds of stone.

Colsan did not run toward the exit.

He lunged forward, throwing his hands up against the splintering beam. He planted his boots wide, his shoulder digging into the damp, rotting wood, turning his own body into a structural brace.

"Go!" Colsan roared, the veins in his neck bulging as the immense weight pressed down on him. His boots slid an inch backward in the loose dirt.

"We cannot leave you!" Lenny yelled, rushing toward him.

"Get the bags out!" Colsan screamed, his face turning dark red. The wood groaned loudly, a sharp splinter tearing through the fabric of his shirt. "Get the food for the kids! Go!"

Lenny grabbed Marie’s arm and shoved her toward the narrow tunnel. They scrambled over the falling debris, the dust so thick Lenny could only see the beam of Colsan’s dropped flashlight cutting through the haze.

They cleared the entrance of the chamber, stumbling into the main tunnel.

Lenny turned back. Colsan was failing. His knees were buckling. The rock was too heavy.

"Hold it!" Lenny screamed. He dropped his heavy backpack in the tunnel and ran back into the collapsing chamber.

He grabbed the iron crowbar from the floor. He jammed the heavy steel end under the center of the bowing wooden beam, wedging the bottom against a solid slab of stone on the floor.

"Let go!" Lenny yelled.

Colsan dropped away from the beam just as Lenny kicked the makeshift iron brace into place. The crowbar took the weight, the steel groaning but holding.

Lenny grabbed Colsan by the collar of his heavy shirt and dragged him backward. They dove into the tunnel just as the iron crowbar bent under the pressure.

The support beam snapped completely.

The ceiling of the chamber collapsed. A tidal wave of dirt, rock, and debris slammed down, sealing the room behind them in a thunderous roar. The force of the collapse knocked them both flat on their faces.

Silence crashed back into the tunnel, heavy and absolute.

Lenny lay in the dirt, gasping for air. His ears were ringing violently. He pushed himself up onto his knees. The dust was suffocating.

"Colsan?" Lenny coughed out.

Beside him, the older man rolled onto his back. He was covered in gray dust, his breathing ragged. He looked at Lenny, his eyes wide in the dark.

"You went back," Colsan breathed out, coughing violently. "You went back for me."

"We had a deal," Lenny said, his voice raw.

Marie’s flashlight beam cut through the dust, hitting them. "Are you both alive?"

"Yeah," Colsan grunted, pulling himself to his feet. He reached down and grabbed Lenny’s arm, hauling him up with surprising strength. The grip was tight. A silent acknowledgment. "Grab the bags. Let's get out of this hole."

The hike back to the car was a blur of exhaustion. The adrenaline had worn off, leaving their muscles feeling like lead. Nobody spoke. The weight of the silver in Lenny’s pack dug deep trenches into his shoulders, but he did not complain.

They reached the civic just as the sun dipped completely below the horizon, painting the sky in deep bruises of purple and black.

They threw the bags into the trunk. Colsan stood by the open door, looking at the two teenagers.

"There is a buyer in the city," Marie said quietly. "An antiquities dealer. He handles estate sales quietly. No questions asked. I will contact him tonight. We will have the money converted to cash by tomorrow afternoon."

Colsan nodded slowly. "You keep your word, kid. Forty percent."

"I will bring it to your house myself," Lenny said.

Two days later, Lenny stood in the back office of the Thunder Bay community pantry.

Mrs. Gable sat at the desk, staring at the computer screen. Her mouth was slightly open.

"I do not understand," she said, adjusting her glasses. "The bank just called. We received an anonymous wire transfer through a shell corporation. It is... Lenny, it is enough to stock the pantry for the next five years. We can buy the building. We can buy a new truck."

Lenny leaned against the doorframe. He felt an immense, physical weight lift off his chest. The tight knot in his stomach that had been there for months finally dissolved.

"People surprise you, Mrs. Gable," Lenny said quietly.

That night, Lenny and Marie sat in a booth at the local pizza place. The vinyl seats were sticky, and the smell of cheap mozzarella and grease hung heavy in the air.

Lenny took a bite of a slice, the hot cheese burning the roof of his mouth. He didn't care. It was the best thing he had ever tasted.

Marie slid a thick manila envelope across the table.

"That is the last of the cash," she said. "Colsan’s cut is delivered. The dealer took the seeds to a contact in Toronto. He said they are viable."

Lenny wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. "It is over. We actually did it."

Marie didn't smile. She reached into her canvas bag and pulled out the old, water-damaged leather journal.

"I spent the afternoon cleaning the binding," she said, keeping her voice low. The diner was empty, but she leaned in anyway. "The back cover was unusually thick. I thought it was just swollen from water damage. But it wasn't."

She opened the back cover. She had used a razor to carefully peel back the inner lining.

Inside the false bottom was a piece of waxed paper. It was covered in Anishinaabemowin symbols and numbers.

"What is that?" Lenny asked, his heart rate spiking slightly.

"The journal was just an inventory for the workers' cache," Marie said, her eyes dark. "This... this is the map to the company vault. The payroll. Gold bullion, Lenny. They stole the company's gold and buried it somewhere past the river."

Lenny stared at the map. The sheer scale of what they had stumbled into was terrifying.

Before he could speak, his phone vibrated on the table.

It was a text message. Not from a saved contact. Just an unknown number.

Lenny picked it up and tapped the screen.

The message was short: Ask your friend Colsan what happened to the rest of the jars.