Carly pushed through the desert debris with her walking stick and forged ahead along the broad, neglected path atop the wall.

  Lemon skipped behind, singing a nonsense song to herself:

  “Ah la li… I’m the queen…

  la la li… This is my castle…”

  She twirled once, arms outstretched, then hopped over a cracked brick.

  A startled cricket leapt across their path and darted under a bench.

  “Don’t be scared, little critter,” said Old Lady Marbles, crouching down for a better look.

  From the tangled cobwebs, a huge black widow spider crawled out and snatched the poor cricket away.

  The cricket clicked its legs wildly… then went silent.

  “Ew!” screamed Marbles.

  She stumbled back.

  “Latrodectus mactans,” Marco said. “The black widow. And it’s going to get you!”

  “Stop it!” Marbles snapped.

  She turned away and gasped at the view of the stately windmills against the mountains.

  “It’s beautiful up here,” she said.

  She asked Carly, “How come nobody takes care of this place? If I lived at Golden Rays, I’d be up here all the time!”

  Carly shook her head. “Nobody knows about it now. At first, everybody came up here to walk and enjoy the view. It was wonderful.”

  Marco started counting black widow webs. They were everywhere.

  He stepped through one.

  Crap.

  There were so many.

  Carly paused, watching the windmills turn. “But over time, the first retirees—you know… they died.”

  He pinched off the web strands, but they were stubborn and kept clinging to his fingers.

  She went on: “For a while, a few still came up to watch shooting stars, or to cast their loved ones’ ashes into the wind.”

  Marco brushed another strand off his arm, shuddering.

  “But as new folks moved in to replace the old, they were never told about this place.”

  Marbles frowned, glancing back at the empty path.

  “And eventually, everyone just stopped coming.”

  He freed his legs, only to snag his shoe in another web.

  Shit.

  Was that an egg sac on his sock?

  Carly gazed toward the San Jacinto Mountains, beyond the desert dunes.

  She sniffed. “Since Mrs. Neel came along, nobody is allowed on this path anymore. At least, nobody in the Sunshine Club—and that’s almost everyone I know.”

  “You sound so sad, deary,” said Old Lady Marbles, slipping a lace hanky from her fanny pack. “Here, take this.”

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Carly gave her a confused, tearful look—but then laughed a little.

  She wiped back her tears.

  “Thank you,” she said, handing the hanky back to Marbles.

  Leaning on her staff, she muttered with quiet disdain, “I hate it like this.”

  “I don’t like Mrs. Neel! She stinks!” Lemon called out as she peeked over the edge of the wall.

  “How high are we? A hundred feet? Did you ever spit from up here?”

  “Thirty-three feet exactly,” Carly answered.

  Lemon spat. “Pa-tooey.”

  “Now get away from there before someone sees you!”

  Below them, the Golden Rays Golf Course spread out in a huge green patchwork.

  Marco could see the massive central clubhouse, the long road they’d come in on, and a sprawling parking lot overflowing with yellow and white golf carts.

  He leaned over the edge, a knot forming in his stomach.

  “Hey, I can see the Rayzors!”

  Down at the clubhouse, men and women in yellow vests were loading a crowd of old people into golf carts and driving them away.

  Carly peeked over for a better look.

  “It’s the Garden Club,” she said. “The Rayzors take volunteers over every morning to work the rose gardens.”

  Just then, two old ladies tried to break away from the group and dash back into the clubhouse.

  The guards at the front door caught them and forcefully led them back.

  Marco blinked hard and focused on the scene.

  Holy crap. Something isn’t right here.

  “They don’t look like they’re volunteers to me,” Old Lady Marbles remarked.

  Carly gripped her walking stick a little tighter and started down the center of the path.

  “Let’s get a move on. I want to get off this wall before it gets too hot.”

  Lemon kicked a sun-bleached “Golfer’s Digest” magazine out of her way.

  Another tower loomed in the distance.

  Marco’s forehead was barely sweating. His Kitten Brigade hat kept his head remarkably cool.

  But that annoying loose string dangled in front of his eyes.

  Freakin’ string!

  As they trudged along, Lemon asked, “Is the cat up here?”

  “No,” Carly answered.

  “I’m tired,” Lemon whined.

  Marbles handed her some water and took a sip herself.

  Within a few minutes, they finally reached the next tower.

  “Shade at last,” said Marbles.

  Carly didn’t speak.

  Mourning doves had completely taken over this tower’s interior.

  The window ledges were packed with nests, and every surface was caked with bird poop.

  As they walked, dozens of doves burst from the windows and circled the tower.

  Lemon’s shoe stuck to the floor and peeled off. She hopped on one foot struggling to get it back on again. “Gross!”

  Marco eyed the slimy stairs. “Do we go down here?”

  “No. No,” Carly answered. “We’re almost there, though—just a little further.”

  “BuuuuuuuURP!”

  The longest, juiciest burp Marco had ever heard echoed and bounced around the curved tower walls.

  Carly called down the stairs, her voice chasing the fading echo: “Mr. Ravel? Are you there?”

  “Right here!” A man wearing a hooded rain poncho—excessively splattered in bird poop—looked up from the ground floor and waved hello.

  He was surrounded by hundreds of mourning doves, all pecking at broken loaves of bread scattered around his feet.

  She asked politely, “Mr. Ravel, I left my car back a tower. It’s in the usual hiding place. Do you mind bringing it to my house? They’re looking for me again, and I can’t go do it myself.”

  “Anything, Carly, my dear!” he called back. “I’ll go get it right now!”

  He saluted her with half a torn baguette then burped again, loudly.

  For a moment, all the doves froze. Then they went right back to pecking the loaves.

  She shouted down after him, “Thank you! Hey, stop by later—I found more bread!”

  Carly and the children soon left Mr. Ravel and the cool shade of the dove tower, continuing their walk along the top of the long wall.

  The next tower stood far off in the distance.

  Marco had a sudden, strange urge to burp.

  So he did. “Blaarp!”

  “Children should be seen and not heard,” said Old Lady Marbles—then she burped even louder.

  Everyone laughed.

  “Who was that man?” Lemon asked Carly.

  “That was Mr. Ravel,” she answered. “I’ve known him for a very long time. He’s odd, but he’s a good and loyal friend.”

  Marco wasn’t sure whether to laugh or worry.

  “Did you know one of your puffballs has come loose?” Marbles asked Marco, pointing at his hat.

  “I’m going to throw this hat in the moat,” Marco grumbled. He’d had enough.

  “I’ll help you, sonny,” Marbles cooed in her old lady voice.

  She took the dangling string, tucked it under a loose loop, and tied it into a striking bow.

  “You look so pretty now!” she declared.

  Carly kept her head down, grunting with each step, weary from the heat.

  Lemon stopped to look out over Golden Rays.

  “Whoa! You guys have to see this!” she called with a tinge of excitement, waving them over.