After crossing the final stretch of wall to the last tower, the tired group descended the spiral stairs.

  At the bottom, Carly pointed to the arched door and whispered, “Someone see if the coast is clear.”

  Marbles crept across the dark, empty room, lifted the iron latch, and cracked open the creaky door.

  Just enough for Lemon and Marco to peer out.

  Small stucco houses lined a quiet street. An ambulance’s blaring siren split the air.

  It rounded the corner, then quickly faded into the distance.

  Lemon scanned the neighborhood with the binoculars and told the others it looked safe.

  But she did spot a man sitting on a lawn chair in front of a house.

  Marbles asked, “Is he a Rayzor?”

  “No,” Lemon said. “He just looks really, really old.”

  Carly instructed them, “Listen close. See way down there where the road ends? I want you kids to go hide in that row of Italian cypress. I’m coming too, but because I’m a little slower, you’re going to have to wait for me.”

  “But what about that man?” asked Marco.

  “That half-baked water witch?” Carly sharply replied. “Just act natural. If he talks to you, stick to the weather. It’s all he cares about. Now hurry!”

  Marco took the cat trap and snuck out of the tower first.

  He checked his surroundings then jetted down the street, headed for the trees.

  Old Lady Marbles and Lemon soon caught up with him.

  Carly followed, making her short grunts and clacking her walking stick hard against the cement sidewalk.

  She glanced down the street, straightening herself and fixing her hat for just a moment, before she caught up with them.

  “I’m scared,” Lemon confessed. “Is that old man a witch?”

  “I don’t think so, sweetie,” answered Marbles. “Hold my hand. I’ll protect you.”

  They all smiled a little too broadly as they shuffled past the skinny elderly man sprawled out in his metal lawn chair.

  He held a small computer pad as if he was working on a crossword puzzle, then took a sip from a glass sitting next to a plastic jar of Metamucil. When he looked up at them, Lemon let out a squeak and hid behind Marbles.

  His eyes were the most intense blue any of them had ever seen.

  Marbles remembered what Carly said and commented about the weather. “Nice day we’re having!”

  The strange man waited a moment, as if to gather his thoughts. “Yes… it is,” he replied. “Pity about the monsoon coming.” He glanced at his computer pad. “Marnie’s duck tried to climb into her laundry basket last night. That only happens when the pressure drops. But the water will be good. Water is always good.”

  “Uh… right,” nodded Marbles. “I do like water.” She backed away. “Have a great day!”

  Marco checked the weather report on his cell phone. It predicted clear and sunny for the next ten days and mentioned nothing about a monsoon.

  After getting past him, they followed the quiet neighborhood street all the way to its end, then hid within the dense row of Italian cypress trees as instructed.

  “He’s still watching us,” Lemon whispered.

  A fat spiny iguana clawed its way down a tree trunk and leapt between them.

  “Yikes, that lizard’s as big as my old Buick,” said Old Lady Marbles.

  They watched Carly from their hiding place.

  When she came upon the water witch, she had a quick conversation with him.

  Lemon blurted, “Golden Rays is stinky!”

  “Shh!” Marco quieted her, then gagged from the smell himself.

  The warm breeze carried the scent of sour milk and rot.

  “Here, little one, have a drink,” said Old Lady Marbles, offering Lemon some cold water.

  Lemon asked, “What’s a monsoon?”

  “It’s a strong, windy rainstorm. You know, like we get every summer,” Marbles replied.

  After what felt to Marco like twenty forevers, Carly finally caught up with them.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Breathless, she declared, “Okay, we don’t have much time. There’s a storm coming in less than an hour. Let’s get to it.

  Oh, and I’m supposed to tell you our friend over there really likes your hats.”

  She parted a gap between the trees, revealing an unusual street lined with large metal garbage dumpsters and endless piles of trash. A ground squirrel rattled some empty cans as it dove under a ripped Lay-Z-Boy recliner.

  Carly announced with a grin, “Welcome to the Golden Rays Dump!”

  “P.U.! It stinks!” declared Lemon. She scrunched her face and pinched her nose.

  “Come with me,” Carly told them. “Prince is usually out here looking for scraps.”

  She squeezed between the line of tight cypress trees and jumped out onto the trash-filled road.

  Thorny weeds tangled with used tissues and crumpled candy wrappers crunched under her feet.

  “Well, come on. Let’s go!” she said, urging the children to follow.

  She hurried them past the deep, smelly dumpsters and onto a narrow deer trail winding through towering mounds of rubbish. She knew which forks to take, which pits to avoid, and exactly which furniture legs she could hold for balance without triggering a trash?alanche.

  Old Lady Marbles pointed at one of the decaying trash piles and remarked, “Such a shame to waste so many perfectly good wigs.”

  “And I’m sure there’s still some good hemorrhoid cream left in these tubes!” Marco exclaimed.

  He picked one up and squirted the remaining contents at Lemon—who screamed like she was on fire.

  “Please, children, show some respect!” Carly snapped.

  “Hey… what’s this?” Marco fished a 1970s-looking trophy out from the trash.

  Carly scolded him. “Leave that alone! This here is an elephant graveyard. It’s sacred!”

  “Huh? Okay, sorry.” Marco apologized, then chucked the trophy across the road.

  “Elephants?” Lemon scanned the mounds.

  Carly huffed, “Don’t throw things around like that, dang it. Now you’ve got to go get it.”

  Frustrated, Marco threw up his arms and brought it back to her.

  Carly yanked a brightly patterned polyester blouse from the rubbish heap and shook the sand off.

  She wrapped the trophy in the blouse and tied it off with twine from one of her pockets. Then she gently placed the bundle beneath a dining chair, next to a cluster of similarly wrapped packages.

  She nodded, slumped her shoulders and bowed her head, “For posterity.”

  A little embarrassed, Marco stood still and watched.

  Unsure what to do with his hands he put them behind his back then in his pockets. “Were they… someone you knew?”

  Carly explained, “It’s not much, but it belonged to Mrs. Patterson. I try to keep her and her husband’s things together.”

  “But it’s trash. Who cares?” Lemon said, stomping on a small pair of reading glasses.

  Then she looked around and asked, “Is this really an elephant graveyard?”

  Carly cocked her head at little Lemon and said, “This here’s not just trash.” She pointed, “These piles belonged to good people from Golden Rays. People who are now gone.”

  “And elephants?” Lemon’s eyes darted about as if a trunk was going to suddenly poke out of a trash-mound like a periscope.

  Old Lady Marbles smiled. “It’s just a figure of speech, darling.”

  Carly chuckled. “No, it really is an elephant graveyard—a white elephant graveyard.”

  Lemon’s mouth dropped open, “So there are elephants?”

  The pompoms on her Kitten Brigade hat bounced up and down.

  “Oh dear,” said Carly with a sigh.

  “You see, when somebody passes away, their things go to family and friends. That’s called an inheritance.”

  Marco lifted his foot to let a large, determined harvester ant, Pogonomyrmex californicus scurry past.

  “They usually fight over the big stuff like money, property, cars…

  “But the things nobody wants—the ones that are more trouble than they’re worth? Those are called white elephants.”

  When he put his foot down, the unpredictable ant, in its frantic search for seeds, was immediately blocked by his shoe again, this time going the other direction.

  “All of it ends up here. Each of these piles are all the white elephants that once belonged to someone at Golden Rays.

  “Sometimes, when I’m lonely, I come out and tend to their things.

  “Mostly because I miss them.

  “But also… for posterity.”

  “Oh…,” Lemon nodded as if she understood then stopped and asked “Huh?”.

  “See that there?” Carly pointed at a cloth-wrapped package.

  “It’s a framed certificate. Nobody wanted it. Says Mrs. Patterson was on the city council for twenty years.

  Twenty years!”

  She gestured toward the scattered wigs. “Those were hers too.”

  She motioned to Lemon. “Open up that white vanity case on top.”

  Lemon picked up the vintage-style vanity case from the junk pile.

  “AAAH!” she screamed, dropping it as a swarm of roaches exploded from underneath and skittered toward her feet.

  She hesitated. Then, reluctantly, she picked it up again.

  Marbles knelt beside her and helped with the latches.

  The interior was clean and lined with red velvet.

  Inside lay a fine, perfectly preserved wig, something a stylish and sophisticated matron might wear.

  It still smelled of fine perfume.

  Carly recalled, “That one was her favorite. She even wore it once in a TV commercial!”

  Old Lady Marbles gently lifted the wig for a better look. Beneath it lay a stack of fading photographs—Mrs. Patterson beaming at parties and social functions, always in that same elegant wig. Tucked beside them were personal thank-you letters, wedding invitations, and a generous scatter of birthday cards.

  “It’s beautiful! It’s the most beautiful wig I’ve ever seen!” she exclaimed.

  Carly watched silently as Marbles carefully handled the fine wig.

  Then she took a deep breath and said, “You know, hon… why don’t you keep it? Mrs. Patterson doesn’t need it anymore.”

  Marbles lit up. “Really? I can have it? I love it!”

  She took the wig and tried stuffing it into her fanny pack.

  “Just take the whole thing,” Carly said. “As long as you promise to take care of Mrs. Patterson’s pictures.”

  “Oh, I will! Thank you! Thank you so much!” Marbles beamed, thrilled.

  Now aware of their existence, Marco noticed Carly’s posterity packages hidden throughout the dump.

  Most were nestled neatly inside the jumbled junk piles, like bird eggs tucked inside nests made from out-dated kitchen appliances and mismatched shoes.

  “Here, Prince!” Carly called out the cat’s name.

  “Keep an eye out. He’s around here somewhere.”

  A small brown mouse darted between their feet, fleeing from something rustling deeper in the trash.