Our driveway and the neighbors’ was separated by a cement wall–a twelve-foot terraced step, with their driveway at the top, and ours down below. Hector and Phoebe’s driveway. They were renting the first floor apartment: newlyweds. I don’t remember who lived on the floor above them. The ground between our garages was a little dirt no man’s land. You had to hoist yourself up there, or jump down from Hector and Phoeb’e side. A few of the boys from one street over, along with my brother, decided to call it a fort. Their fort. I wouldn’t be shooed away; it was my family’s property, or close enough. I don’t know who discovered there was treasure up there. Marbles, a silver chain, a lady’s ring…the more we looked, the more we found. There was something magical about it, and also unceremonious, like our garage was built on the graves of moderately fancy past inhabitants. When we were done plundering, there was nothing to hold anyone to this dull patch of shadowy ground. All activity ceased. The boys returned to their games on their street. Their shouting. Their skateboards. And I would sometimes climb up and keep digging, deeper than before.