It began on an ordinary Sunday afternoon. The neighbor’s dog squeezed through a gap in Henry’s fence and started digging circles into the lawn like he was searching for something important. Dirt flew, paws blurred, and then came a dull, hollow sound that didn’t belong. Henry froze. His first thought was plumbing. His second was something worse. The dog kept digging and then stopped, paw pressed over a patch of clay, staring at the ground as if he knew more than anyone else.

Henry called to the neighbor, who rushed over with a leash. The dog refused to move. Beneath his paw, the dirt shimmered faintly with a line of metal, the corner of something square. When Henry tapped it with his spade, it gave off a sharp, metallic ring. Not rock. A lid.

They remembered the police search from last fall — flashlights, notes, long nights combing sheds and gardens. Nothing had turned up. But tonight, the air hung heavy and still, and the only sound was the dog’s breathing. What they were about to uncover would leave the whole street speechless.