When Real Syd came tapping at my window at 11:59 p.m., I was beyond prepared.

Dark purple sweat suit, for camouflage. Check.

Old fuzzy slippers, for their tight fit and quiet sneak-ability. Check.

Dad watching Bonanza rerun way too loud in other room. Check.

Cousin wearing an old Batman costume. Check.

I scrambled out my bedroom window to find Syd wearing a tool belt cinched around his plastic cape. One pocket held a long black flashlight, another held Uncle Clay’s big wrench, and the rest were filled with pistachios.

“Hey, Batboy, you think you could have brought a quieter snack?” I whispered. Syd rushed at me to thump my arm but couldn’t follow through without nutshells tumbling to the ground. We stood side by side surveying the dark tallness of The Roast, its shadow looming large and spooky.

“So which window’s gonna bite the dust?” asked Syd, whap-whap-whapping the wrench into his palm.

“Shouldn’t we at least try the doors first?” I asked.

“If you want to waste time,” he said.

Just to aggravate him, I strolled over slow as I could and checked the driver door. Locked. I checked the passenger door. Locked. I checked the middle door. Unlocked.

“Dang,” said Syd, holstering his wrench.

I pulled the door open, slow and quiet. There was so much darkness inside, it spilled right out, all mixed with the smell of spray paint and cough drops. My goose bumps came together with second thoughts about the whole midnight plan.

“We’re going to need your flashlight,” I said.

Syd handed over the light. He had a scared, You go on in and I’ll stand watch out here look on his face.

“You go on in. I’ll stand watch out here,” he said, standing stiff with the wrench squeezed tight in his hand. “Just let me know if you need backup.”

“Come on, Syd,” I said. “This was half your idea in the first place.”

“I know.” He shrugged. “But what if there are ghosts of past owners hanging out in there?”

“What in the world?” I said.

“Like old dead robbers who were shot by police. Or old dead spies who were shot by the FBI. Or old dead robbers who spied on the old dead spies who robbed them?”

“Syd, you’re not making any sense,” I said. “Besides, I’m sure they’d all run at the sight of a handyman in a cape.”

Syd made a cross-armed pout and secured the wrench in his pocket. I stepped up into the darkness of The Roast by myself, holding Syd’s flashlight out at full arm’s length. I’d never walked into something with so little idea of what to expect. It felt like landing on a whole other planet.

Just then, the flashlight faded to half strength, and I was forced to take things in just one bit at a time, shining my way item by item through the front of The Roast. At first, my weak beam of light revealed a scattering of very Dad-ish things. A Swiss Army knife with all the tiny tools fanned out like a little sunshine of gadgets. A half bag of stale candy corn. A caseless, scuffed-up CD of Gordon Lightfoot—Complete Greatest Hits. The middle section of the motor home simply held a gray velour sofa on the right and a rolltop desk with a folding chair to my left. Nothing much mysterious about all that.

It wasn’t until I lit my way farther to the back that things became not so predictable. The entire rear section of The Roast seemed to be separated off from the rest by a tablecloth covered in faded poinsettias. The tablecloth hung from the ceiling like a curtain, tied back with one of my old ponytail ribbons. Inside the little area behind the curtain, filling most of the space, sat a wooden box long as a bathtub and tall as my hip. On the front of the box, I noticed there was a plate-size hole, just big enough for me to stick my face into and regret it when I got a noseful of dirty-sock smell. I couldn’t see inside the box through the hole, but I sure wasn’t about to put my hand inside, scared it could very well be holding the ghost socks of dead robber-spies.

On top of the wooden box was a stack of familiar items mixed in with some unfamiliar. I recognized the cushion from Syd’s den couch laid all the way across the lid. Folded neatly on that was the yellow afghan that Aunt Jo made me years ago, the one I’d retired because my long middle toe used to get caught in it. The next level up was a small blue pillow of worn velvet, and balanced on that was a fresh box of colored pencils, newly sharpened and great for noodling. A little red sharpener sat on top of the pencils like a cherry.

Above all that, out the back window, Syd’s head popped up as he jumped for a peek. “Freezer?” he said on his first jump. He’d nearly startled the soul right out of my body.

“No freezer!” I said on his second jump.

“Meat?” he said on his third.

“I don’t see any!” I said on his fourth.

I ignored the fifth, sixth, and seventh jumps, and waved the light around for more discoveries. There was “CASS” written in glitter in Uncle Clay’s jagged handwriting on the back side of the curtain, a poster showing the construction of the Eiffel Tower in six different blackand-white photos thumbtacked to a wall that had been freshly painted white, and a stack of old wrinkly magazines on the floor. So this is what they were doing in here, I thought. Setting all this stuff up.

At church they call it having your conscience pricked when you suddenly feel like some of your rights may have been wrongs in disguise. Like sabotaging something that could very well have been designed with your own happiness in mind. I made my way to the gray couch and squished down into its softness to soak everything in. As I leaned back, my heel bumped something tucked up under there. It was a worn leather suitcase I had never seen my dad carry before, and on it were faded gold non-Dad initials that read MBM. I sure couldn’t think of any MBM’s that we knew. Then, as I fiddled with the lock on the suitcase, another odd detail caught my eye. Straight ahead of me and parked under the rolltop desk was that old wagon of mine, with a shoehorn wedged under to keep the wheels from rolling. As the wagon sparkled in the shine of my flashlight, I could have sworn it was freshly covered in glitter paint.

Suddenly I felt The Roast shaking, and heard a muffled voice from below.

“Hey!” said Syd. “Check it out! Raiders of the Lost Roast!”

Please tell me he is not holding on underneath, I thought.

“I’m holding on underneath!” he said. “I’m a stowaway!”

As the batteries in the flashlight gave out, I pushed the suitcase back under the sofa and rose to feel my way to the exit. Then, no more than two seconds after the last whimper of light, I felt myself step right smack-dab into the middle of the most bizarre thing thus far inside The Roast. The thing was jangly and tight on my foot, and my biggest problem was, I couldn’t seem to step out of it. An icy wave of remorse flowed all through me as I considered the possibilities. Was this an alarm of some sort? A booby trap set for spying kids?

Of course, my best option at this point would have been to simply sit still, but sometimes when you’re scared, best options get mixed up in your head. So instead, I scrambled out the door and across the carport, running like I’d been caught in a bear trap. My foot sent up a rowdy schwickity-flack! Schwickity-flack!

It wasn’t until I found a chunk of moonlight that I looked back to see ribbons, colorful and long as a peacock’s tail, trailing behind me. The ribbons were attached to the fanciest tambourine ever, wedged stubbornly onto my own left foot. It seemed the more I shook, the less the tambourine budged and the louder it got. And then I saw a light come on in the kitchen.

“Let’s get out of here!” I shouted, making a dive for my bedroom window.

Syd slid mechanic-in-a-panic style out from underneath the motor home, letting out a yowl as he scraped across the concrete. And while my buh-gert cousin ran all the way home with a fresh hole flapping in the back of his costume, I closed my window just in time, almost pinching the trail of ribbons under it. The tambourine was jammed so tight on my trembling foot that I squeezed my muscles desperately to not rattle it. I sucked in a breath and almost choked on my own spit.

“Cass? Cass? You okay?” my dad called from the hallway.

“Um, yeah, Dad. I just, um, sort of tripped is all.”

“All right,” he said. “Well, good night in there. Get some good rest so you can be ready for our big bon voyajee in the morning.” Dad slipped his words under the door quiet and careful, like he was sneaking bits of food to a trapped animal.

“I’ll be ready,” I said, surprised to hear the rise in my own voice, like my mouth had forgotten to consult my heartache first.

After Dad was gone, I found my fattest pillow and pressed it down over my foot to silence the racket of trying to wrestle the tambourine loose. As I tug-tug-tugged with my free hand, I wondered, if I had found a freezer in The Roast, would I have unplugged it?

The tambourine finally came off. I combed its tangled ribbons with my fingers as best I could, realizing that any plan that would make a meat salesman acquire something as silly as this might very well be worth giving a chance.

Nope, I thought. I definitely would not have unplugged it.