Eleven

El smiles and looks down at the box. The wood is damp, crusted in places with sand and she-doesn't-know-what-else. She kneels next to it, feeling for a seam or a latch. It isn't like the buried treasure from books, in ornate chests with huge locks and golden keys. This is a crate, like the kind you can buy at a 'rustic' store, but with a lid, which she realizes quickly is nailed in place.

She looks up at him, looking a little hesitant.

"I think I have to break it," she says.