The hammer hits the wall with a resounding thud, reverberating through my body, and knocks me to the concrete floor on my rear.

There is hardly a dent in the wall.

“Give it to me,” Frank says with great reluctance. “We’re probably going to regret this.”

I sit up. “Smash the damn wall!”

Frank whacks it once, twice, three times, until there is a gaping hole in it. I jump in excitement. “Yeah, baby!”

Frank laughs at my enthusiasm. I stand and head to the wall, and begin tearing at the old lath and plaster, pulling off hunks and pieces of old wood—plaster literally crumbling around me—until I can see into the next room.

“Oops,” I say to Frank, who laughs.

Frank sets down the hammer, pulls his cell from his pocket and begins to shine the light into the wall. “Wow, this is old,” he says, turning to look at me, the light directly on my face.

“Watch it, Frank,” I say.

He turns the light toward the wall again.

“Hey,” I say. “What is that?”

“Where?”

“Down at the base of the wall.”

Frank shines his light down. “I don’t know,” he says. “But let’s find out. It’s too late anyway.”

He hammers repeatedly at the bottom of the wall, tearing pieces of wood away until there is a big, round hole near the floor. He shines his light back into it and says, “Here goes nothing,” before sticking his hand into the wall.

“What in the world?” Frank asks.

In his hands is an old tin, about the size of a small shoebox. He walks over and sets it on the daybed.

“Want to do the honors?” he asks.

The tin is warped and rusted, no visible marks or words apparent. It takes a bit of effort to pry off the lid, but when it pops free, Frank and I both gasp. The tin is filled with a delicate stack of papers, folded and tied with a ribbon. As gently as possible, I untie the ribbon, dust particles rising into the air, the ribbon disintegrating. I gingerly open the papers.

“It’s a letter,” I say, staring at the beautiful cursive, the ink faded but still legible. “From a girl.”

I look inside the tin, and then at Frank, my eyes wide.

“It’s a time capsule,” I say. “We found a time capsule.”

THIRTEEN

I am sitting in the middle of my bed, while Sonny sniffs the tin. His nose covers every inch of the rusting box before moving to the items I have scattered on the comforter: a yellowed, tattered newspaper with sections missing, as if they had just disintegrated; an illustration of four women at the beach, titled Gibson Girl, their entire bodies covered as if they were going to church; a drawing of a girl with dreamy eyes sporting a bejeweled hat, with Art Nouveau by Sadie written at the bottom; and a swatch of satiny fabric.