Rusty, rickety wheels clattered against the cold cobblestones as the morning damp settled on our working hands.

“Papa,” the boy said to me, looking up at me with those hazel Bambi-eyes of his (of course, Bambi wasn’t out yet, as there were no movies. Ahem. Get back to reading the story). “When are we going to stop?”

I curled my shivering fingers against the worn wood of the shovel’s handle. “When this is good and gone, son,” I said, winking a crinkly eye at him. (He was, technically, my grandson, but that’s beside the point.)

He sighed and poked a sliver of dirt out of the ground half-heartedly.

“A’right, this is deep enough, I think,” I said. We grasped opposite ends of the chest. “Heave!” I said, and we chucked that chest into the chilly hole in the ground.

“We ain’t never seein’ this thing again, are we, Papa?” Gregor asked.

“Nope, it’s gone for good, good and gone,” I repeated.

“Good,” he said, “it was scary enough last time.” We walked way away, way out to the wharf.