We push through the double doors and find a large echoing room with a wood floor and bleachers on either side. Two hoops with nets stand on each end of the floor. There’s a board with faded numbers on the far wall.

“Basketball,” Clay says, pointing to the hoops. “Teams of five dribble a ball back and forth. They try to scores as many points by shooting the ball into a hoop. The town south of mine had an outdoor court.”

Ethan and I walk around and examine everything, the tilting bleachers, the hoop with the fraying net. When this school was in use, the kids got to play games. Their life couldn’t have been so bad. Ethan finds a flat orange ball and tries to bounce it. The noise of the ball smacking the floor makes me jumpy. Eventually, I shoot him a look and he sets the ball down.

We push through another set of double doors and find a similar space with rows of tables and benches. Some are turned over. Some are covered in bits of ceiling that have fallen down. Big gray bins are stuffed with ancient food wrappers and paper napkins that flow out and trail across the floor. I walk over and peer in the bins. This trash has been here so long it doesn’t even smell. We find nothing but useless garbage, but I know we’re getting close.

A doorway at the back leads to a dark kitchen. There’s rusty old metal stoves and empty molding refrigerators. We find a few utensils scattered around the floor and in the drawers. In another drawer I find red and yellow packets, some kind of food dressing that still looks edible. I drop them into my pocket. Clay snags a decent looking frying pan and a serrated knife. Then Ethan calls my name.

I run toward the sound of his voice. He’s standing in a little pantry stacked with shelves. Most are empty. At the bottom though, I see some large metal cylinders the size of small drums. He hefts one up. The label has fallen off and decayed, but on the top in small writing I see a label. “Green beans,” I read slowly. I smile and pat him on the head. “Nice job, Superman.”

He hefts the can and smiles so wide I can see all his little, white teeth.

We take two trips to carry all of the cans back to our classroom where we stack them neatly. We’ve scored three cans of green beans, two cans of what’s called fruit cocktail, two cans of baked beans and a can of corn. It’s a good haul. I smile as I look at our stack.

“How do we get one open?” I ask.

“I saw a can opener in the kitchen drawer. I’ll go grab it,” Clay says.