The pitcher’s mound was a strange sight: perched on top of it was a perfect pyramid of baseballs, all weatherworn and filthy—but still good enough for play. Its appearance should have been a happy miracle for the boys. But the sight of it had put Clark’s brain into a serious panic. His breath became short, his hands shook, his eyes were wide and staring. He tried to hide it from the other boys. They were just as baffled as he was, but none of them seemed as affected by the strange miracle as Clark.

  He had felt this way only two times before in his life. Once was when he was five and starting kindergarten, when his mom had taken him to the fence by the school, showing him the labyrinth and explaining for the first time what it was, and why he should always be afraid of it. He remembered crying and feeling scared—but he also remembered wanting nothing more than to climb over the fence run straight into the labyrinth’s crumbling coils.

  Then there was the time he had found a snake in the grass. He was eight, and had never seen a snake before except in picture books. At first, he was horrified, but then when it slithered away, he had chased after it in a fascinated disgust until it finally disappeared under the fence. He remembered trying to tell his teacher about it afterwards, but the teacher had told him that it was impossible: that there were no snakes in Bend—

  “There they are!” hollered Jack, snapping Clark out of his trance.

  Wes and Perry were returning from their house, where they had been sent to grab baskets and laundry bags to collect the treasure. Without a word, the boys carefully—almost reverently—began gathering up the balls. Clark understood their quiet; they didn’t want questions to ruin the moment. This was bliss. No more scrounging for coins, chores, or schemes to replace baseballs lost over the fence. Now they had an unlimited supply.

  But Pip wasn’t helping. He stood fixated on one baseball, the one he had first grabbed with such happy glee. Now he was turning it over in his hands, his face wearing a deep frown.

  “Are you going to help, or what?” said Jack, annoyed.

  “I recognize this,” said Pip, “This was my ball.”

  “What do you mean, your ball?” Jack snatched it away.

  “I mean it’s mine. Look—there’s my initials.” Pip licked his thumb, polished the dirt off, and held it out. “See? PRS. I signed it after my first home run this summer. Max hit it over the fence the next day. I remember.”

  Silence fell over the group as inevitable questions surfaced.

  “What are you saying, Pip?” asked Henry.

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  “You know what I’m saying.”

  “That’s not possible!” cried Jack. “Nobody can go into the labyrinth! And half the balls we hit over the fence are probably buried a few walls deep. There’s no way anyone could’ve gotten to them.”

  “These are our baseballs,” Pip said simply.

  Clark hesitated, then spoke up. “He’s right. I hit this one a few weeks ago.” He held up a ball, pointing to a knife mark. “Wes stabbed it with his pocketknife when he got bored. I remember.” Clark’s trembling hand didn’t go unnoticed this time.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Jack said sharply.

  “Yeah, it matters!” Pip snapped. “They’re from there!” He pointed at the labyrinth, looming about fifty yards away.

  “It doesn’t matter!” Jack repeated. “They’re just baseballs. They’re not going to kill us or anything.”

  Everyone was quiet.

  Then Clark, as if trying to convince himself as much as anyone else, said, “I agree. They’re just baseballs. Let’s bag up the rest and play. Come on.” He scooped up an armful and dropped them into a basket. One by one, the others followed suit, including Pip.

  The task seemed endless—multiple summers worth of baseballs all put together in a single pile. It had the effect of causing them to recollect pieces of once scattered memories, but which were now altogether in one. When they thought they’d reached the bottom, they discovered the mound had been hollowed out, its lip concealing even more. As they dug deeper, Clark’s eyes caught hold of a familiar pattern the balls made. His mind spiraled at their arrangement. It was identical to the pepperoni on his pizza the other night. He’d forgotten all about it, until now.

  Finally, the last layer was pulled away, revealing something else entirely.

  “What the hell is that?” said Wes.

  The boys huddled around the hole as Max removed the last few balls. Beneath them was a rusted, weathered manhole cover.

  “How the—” Henry started.

  “This wasn’t here before,” Wes muttered.

  Clark took a step back, staring at the mound. “This—this isn’t right.”

  The boys turned to him, their leader—the calm, unshakable Clark James Thompson—now visibly shaken. Pip went to him, gave him a reassuring pat on the back.

  “Hey, are you okay? You look—”

  “I’m fine.” Clark swept a lock of sweat-soaked hair out of his face, meeting the boys’ eyes.

  “This was covered up for a reason,” he said hoarsely, “We weren’t meant to find it.”

  They turned back to the manhole. The words Pigeon County Sewage were inscribed around its edge. Just looking at it filled Clark with dread. His mind couldn’t decide whether the manhole cover was something as stupid and mundane as, well, a manhole cover, or if it was an entrance to a hellish underworld.

  “Why would anyone cover this up?” Henry asked. “Who cares?”

  Pip gave him a look of disbelief. “Are you serious? The sewer connects to the labyrinth. Everything tied to the labyrinth was cut off—sealed up, destroyed. Are you kidding me?”

  Henry didn’t respond. His eyes drifted back to the rusted metal lid, as did everyone else’s. They were so preoccupied, that no one noticed the figure approaching until she spoke.

  “If you’re too chicken, I’ll go in first.”

  It was Sadie.