There was a thicket of trees in the subdivision. When I was 13 and Lucas was 11, it seemed like a forest. Looking back, on it, it was nothing – a cluster of trees that seemed wild because it was surrounded by split-level homes covered in aluminum siding.

We inherited a treehouse, built and abandoned by a mysterious ancient civilization of children who left no trace of their culture except decaying boards and a rotting box of ‘70s Playboys 30’ off the ground.

One Saturday in November. Lucas and I went outside after our chores. Lucas ran and I walked, nonchalant, king of cool because I was older. I remember cold and the smell of rotting leaves.

Lucas suddenly halted before me.

“Danny, someone’s been to the fort.”

I put my hands on his shoulders and moved him aside. Scattered beneath the treehouse we’d claimed were dozens of shoes. A canary Converse sneaker, a tawny pair of entwined stilettos, a mustard pump lying on its side like a capsized yacht. Dozens of yellow shoes, like they’d fallen from the sky.