“It sounds to me like we have a deal, Abigail,” said Dr. Lacamoire smoothly.

“It’s Abby, Dr. Lacamoire.”

“Call me Leo.”

So the plan was in motion. When I said yes, and so did he, we kicked off an adventure that we couldn’t have possibly guessed would end the way it did. I had my reasons, and Dr. Leo Lacamoire had his, and Simone even had hers. But together, we had a shared mission. One that involved lying and deceit and probable disaster, sure, but a mission nonetheless.

“Mom?” I went into the office the next day, where my mother was going over some spreadsheets. “Do you have a sec?”

“Sure thing, sweets. Just trying to get a few last-minute things in order. Can you believe the eclipse is in eight days? We have three new renters this week. One cabin was booked by the New York Times!”

“That’s awesome,” I said. I plopped down in the other office chair and spun around in it.

“So what’s on your mind?” She didn’t take her eyes off the spreadsheets.

I had to play this the right way. I thought about my words carefully.

“Someone was looking at the Waukegan Weekly archives at the library last week for a school project, and I saw a picture of Grandma,” I said.

“In the newspaper? Your grandma?” Now Mom looked up, surprised. “That’s funny. For what?”

“A time capsule,” I said. “It was just random.”

Okay, Leo had told me not to ask anyone. But I didn’t think the thing getting dug up would make national headlines. I mean, the eclipse was all anyone could think about. Main Street was decorated with twinkly lights—which would of course be turned off for the eclipse—and cutouts of shooting stars were in all the store windows. There were already news vans parked outside Hank’s Hardware and More, too. Besides, if I put the dirt right back, it might not even be noticeable. And if Mom did hear about it, chances of her suspecting me were low. I didn’t do things like sneak around and dig up secret time capsules. At least, she didn’t think I did.

And if she asked, I’d lie. I was getting better at it.

I wished I could just call my grandma about the capsule, but she had died when I was in kindergarten. I didn’t remember her much, just flashes of pie crust being spread across a plate and old hymns she’d always hum. There was a framed photo of her on one of our bookshelves, and I knew Mom still went to the cemetery in Milwaukee on her birthday every year. We had an afghan she’d knitted folded over the living room couch, and sometimes, I’d bury my face in it and inhale deeply. But it had been washed a thousand times; you couldn’t smell her anymore.

“Really? Never heard about that. When was it?”

“The year 2000,” I said.

“Well, that explains it. That was the year your dad and I were gallivanting around Europe like a couple of college kids,” chuckled Mom. “Our last big adventure pre-Blair. We were gone, what, eight months? We probably missed the whole thing.”