He never would've considered going in there if Ben hadn't brought his dad's tactical flashlight, but as it was, Tommy didn't really have any grounds for refusal, and he knew it. If only he hadn't been all bravado days earlier, when they'd explored the small cave and found no possible means of entering that deeper place. "Course I'd go in there!" he'd claimed. "I'd be in it faster than anything. No way I can fit, though. Not even you could." But now, somehow, the hole had expanded, almost as if someone had been chipping away at it, evidenced in the way the edges were chiseled into square-inch planes. A hammer and a screwdriver would be all it'd take, and if Tommy were a more perceptive child, he'd have noticed the bits and pieces on the ground, the little piles of debris that revealed someone had, indeed, set about to widen that opening.

The two boys sat crouched in the antechamber, the packed-mud room that'd opened off the creek after all that rain had fallen. It was full nighttime-dark outside and would've been the same inside had Ben not held his bright flashlight and Tommy clutched his weak five-dollar keychain version.

"Well?" Ben reiterated. "You said you'd do it."

Tommy huffed. "Yeah all right already! I said I'd do it. And I will. Just hold on a minute." He scooted hands and knees closer to the opening, which, though large enough for his bulkier frame, would still present a bit of a tight squeeze. He shone his weak light into the black, but its beam was quickly swallowed. "Let me see yours," he said, reaching a hand backward though not turning to look at his peer.

Reluctant yet aware that compliance was necessary at this point, Ben passed his flashlight up, adding disingenuously, "I bet it doesn't go too deep."

"That's what she said," Tommy snorted, too absorbed to witness Ben's visible disgust at the inane, ubiquitous line.

The tactical light penetrated far more than the cheap version had, revealing a tunnel eaten into rock that went on for a ways before appearing to take a sharp turn. Tommy became animated at the acquired visibility; his mischief and wonder resurfaced.

He turned suddenly to Ben, his eyes alight, his cheeks flushed pink. "What do you think is down there?"

Ben narrowed his gaze almost imperceptibly, reflected on how this moon-faced, stupid eleven-year-old would grow into a moon-faced, stupid sixteen-year-old, would always be the kid the teachers passed so they'd not have to deal with him again, the kid who did every idiotic social media challenge put out there whether it risked his life or limb; he'd become a stupid moon-faced twenty-one year old, would drink too much beer and never work off the resulting gut from it, be always on the lookout for easy ass at any hour. His entire future played out in Benny's thoughts, a black-and-white flipbook flicking through its images. A few unplanned impregnations, a coerced abortion or two, a shotgun wedding that'd end in a divorce within a year, a stint in prison for skimming off the top at a meaningless job he despised . . . on and on, each chapter more predictably depressing than the next. The story of Tommy slid across the surface of a pond far too profound, far too fathomless, for the scum above to ever hope to comprehend. And how many human lives were like his? How many were utterly bereft of significance?

At last, Ben gave the answer he knew the other wanted to hear: "Treasure. Ancient stuff. Things that will make us rich and famous."

A visible thrill rippled through Tommy, across his shoulders, and a grin split his face. "Seriously?"

"Seriously," Ben nodded, adding for effect, "cause I saw some. I didn't want to say, but I kind of explored it a little yesterday, and when I got to the end—oh my God. You won't believe what's there."

"Shit, Benny! All right, all right. We're gonna be famous." He turned to the opening, then back to his friend again, hesitation flitting across his face. "You sure your mom is ok—"

"I told her I was staying at your house, just like you told yours you were staying at mine."

"Yeah, but I never stay at your place, so I actually told my mom I was going to Greg's."

Ben rolled his lower lip beneath his upper teeth, allowed a certain distance to draw his gaze. "Yes, fine," he nodded. "I don't think it matters."

"I'm just saying, if my mom calls your mom—"

"She won't."

Tommy sat down on his bottom. "But my mom would be really pissed off if she found out I was here."

"I promise she'll never know."

"But if she does—"

"Just . . . stop talking!"

Tommy did. His chin fell, pulled his mouth into an ugly open pocket barely revealing the pink of his tongue beyond. He was unused to such intensity from his friend.

If Benny wasn't careful, he'd lose the boy. Taking several calming, quiet breaths, he attempted to resemble the naïve twelve-year-old he'd been up until recently. "Sorry Tommy. I'm just really excited to show you, that's all. It's the coolest thing I've ever seen."

Was that a glint of caution in the younger boy's eye? Well, if it was, it went unheeded, as Tommy faltered for only a moment before he grinned stupidly and turned back to begin crawling through the opening. Behind him, in diminishing, erratic yellow light, Benny throbbed with something close to but not quite exhilaration. A certain electricity rippled through him, as if his nerves themselves were wires, as if those wires were pulled by something with a deft hand, a hand made for devious endeavors. Benny had never felt so hollow and yet so filled at the same time; his form moved effortlessly, ecstatically, and yet he'd become aware that he was not quite the mover of his own shape. It didn't bother him, this manipulation—it enthralled him.

"You coming?"

Tommy's words woke Ben from his contemplation. The puppet strings were pulled; he shifted accordingly.

The two boys progressed through the tunnel with a speed driven by provocation, though what provoked the one differed wildly from what provoked the other. Tommy was all jitters and chatter; Benny watched and listened behind him, features obscured save for the occasional stray bit of flashlight that caught the devilry in them. Not even he quite understood his purpose, except to stretch, to push, to test his new limits. Where would his boundaries form? How could he use (or allow himself to be used by) this thing, whatever it was? It desired something from him; he innately understood that. But Benny had always been a serious child, and he didn't bargain except for keeps. Whatever it'd seen in him had been something already there, a latent instinct, a muscle waiting to be flexed. He'd caught it like a virus, the moment he'd gazed into the nothingness, the very nothingness they now slithered their way deeper into, and that virus had spread rapidly.

Ben had welcomed it.

"We're almost there, Benny boy!" Tommy gleefully huffed. He held the tactical flashlight in one of his meaty hands, and so the light jolted up and down in conjunction with his movements, throwing shadows about the passage. Behind him, Ben marveled at his peer's fatuity. Even the simplest of boys would've been wary of a night expedition through an uncharted cave without adequate supplies. Because really, what good was one flashlight in the absolute cavern that lay ahead? A single star in an otherwise empty universe. That's all it'd be, illuminating nothing, only turning back on itself.

The moment Tommy reached the end of the curving tunnel, he fell silent, thrown by his confusion.

"Is this . . . Benny, I can't see anything out there. I think it's probably a really big cave."

"It is," Ben replied, scooting right up along the side of Tommy so the pair were squished next to one another, staring out into the glorious vacuum. He snatched the good flashlight from Tommy (who in his amazement had held it on the ground as if forgetting he had it) and shone it methodically, clockwise around them, pointing out the footholds and details he knew would interest this mediocre boy. "Come on," Ben urged, moving ahead of the other to begin his descent. "I know where everything is, and you just have to see this thing I found."

The leader having become the follower, Tommy obeyed in spite of the well of unease that had opened up even in his guileless, reckless gut. They wound their way through a maze of limestone, dripping with all the expected trappings, their only source of illumination the golden circle that traveled with them. And when Benny felt they'd made sufficient progress, he switched off the light and started back, ignoring whatever nonsense the other boy laughed then shouted then sobbed into the widening, echoing distance between them. Wasn't exactly his fault if Tommy couldn't find his way about in the abyss.

By the time Ben pulled himself from the small orifice back into the starry night and glittering creekbed, the fresh air was anathema to his lungs. He'd grown accustomed to inhaling the thin moisture of the subterranean labyrinth. The thing would take care of Tommy, whatever exactly it was. Ben sensed that it didn't exactly live there—or reside, really, as it didn't seem like something that actually lived. What was it, after all? He didn't know. He knew only that when he'd found it, it'd synchronously found its way into him. It knew him, or perhaps it was him . . . the specifics weren't important. What mattered was that he now followed the all-consuming predilections radiating from that new germ within him.

He spent a moment smiling into the reflective black water of the creek; it wasn't deep, but there was enough of it to smile back at him. And then he climbed out of the ravine. His bike was waiting patiently there beside the brambly bushes that grew teetering over the edge, their roots barely hanging onto the bank. A few more good storms would blow half of them out of the dirt. Giving Tommy's bike no more than a glance, Ben hopped onto his own and pedaled across the grass, toward the edge of the overgrown park. He'd never felt such a rush. Everything around him fell away into shadow. He rode as if at the end of a long pipe, a pinpoint of white light at some imprecise distance signaling his destination. His limbs were not his own; he was no twelve-year-old boy but a masterfully crafted figure whose inner workings were the strings and stuffing of transcendence! The space around him vibrated with an energy he could barely contain—it called to the thing inside of him, which responded in kind, prickling and flaring beneath his flesh so that he was sure he was actually beginning to melt—

"Benny!"

The voice yanked him instantly from everything he'd been experiencing. He found himself at the edge of the grass, readying to cross out of the park onto the street. His mother had called to him from the open window of her car, and the moment he turned to her, she put the vehicle in park and got out. He could only glare.

"Honey are you—are you all right?" The woman moved toward him several steps, paused as she saw his expression, then hesitantly approached. "Where's your friend?"

"He . . . left."

"Oh. I—I was worried." She seemed to momentarily forget why she was there, then abruptly remembered her authority. "You are too young to be out at the park this time of night. Don't you ever run off like that again without telling me, is that clear?"

But he didn't answer, not because he didn't want to but because he couldn't; a fit of coughing overtook him so unexpectedly that his mother rushed to him for fear he was choking. Ben's bike fell to the ground with a clatter as he stumbled sideways off of it. Joanna caught him in her arms and cried out questions before whirling his back to her and attempting to push up under his ribs as she'd been taught while the boy clawed at his throat so violently he left beading streaks from chin to chest. When after a harrowing half a minute Benny did manage at last to breathe, it was only because he'd retched up something that had doubtless been struggling to make its way up through his esophagus. The boy sat back upon the pavement; his mother crouched beside him in crazed relief. The two of them gasped, both working to recalibrate their heaving lungs.

"Wha-what was that?" Joanna finally managed.

Benny looked her full in the face, his mouth dripping black under the streetlight. He held up his right hand and uncurled the fingers to reveal what he'd spat into his palm: a wet scarlet lump, like a piece of very rare steak. And whatever it was, it appeared to be faintly but very definitely pulsing.