Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 79020 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 395(@200wpm)___ 316(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79020 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 395(@200wpm)___ 316(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
When I step inside, the screened-in building offering very little resistance to the whipping wind, I come to realize that this absolutely isn't a great idea.
To my right, behind a long counter, buckets of sand in ascending sizes line the wall. They range from some as small as a sand pail a child would use at the beach to massive fifty-five-gallon metal drums. Those have huge rocks on top, probably as an incentive to buy them instead of one of the smaller ones that are merely topped off with sand.
"I bet you're here for one of those big ones."
I look over, my smile in place, to find a guy who looks so young that I wonder if he has a valid identification to even get this job.
"Not even close," I tell him, earning a half smile.
I bet he offers that huge one to everyone that comes in just to break the ice.
"I'll take whatever this coupon will get me," I say, holding out the coupon I ripped from the booklet before leaving my house.
"That coupon takes five dollars off that one there," he says, pointing to the third bucket down the row.
Forty-five bucks for rocks? My mother didn't raise a fool, the current situation not included.
"And how much is that one?" I ask, pointing at the smallest bucket.
He does his best to hide his smile, but a little of it slinks onto his face as if he agrees that paying to sift through sand to get rocks is ridiculous.
"That one is twenty-five."
"Sold," I tell him.
He offers me the coupon back, but I wave it away. I doubt I'll ever be back here, so there's no use in having it.
He rings me up, telling me to grab a shovel as he plops the small bucket on the countertop in front of me.
"What's that for?" I ask when he hands me a clear plastic bag.
"All the treasure you're going to find. You can have almost any gem you find turned into a special piece of jewelry inside," he explains, angling his head to the far end of the building that leads into what appears to be a store, then he winks at me like I'm not at least a dozen or so years older than him.
"I love treasures!"
I smile again as I lift my bucket from the counter and turn to see a little boy with dreams of finding diamonds in his eyes.
"Good luck," I whisper to him as I walk by.
The woman who I presume is the little boy's mother tightens her grip on the man's hand she's holding as if she's fearful I'm going to pull him away from her.
I pull in a deep breath and make my way to the far side of the long table of rushing water. Why do people always think that their insecurities are caused by people outside of their situation when, more often than not, their problems are the ones under the same roof as them? I guess it's easier to project and blame people you don't know rather than have the courage to speak up when things aren't right. I know it was easier for me.
I plan to sift through my bucket in sections, but the entire contents of the small pail fall out in a large clump the second I tip it over the framed sifting box. I frown down at it, the water under the box already revealing the tiny treasures.
I wince at the cold the second my fingers touch the water as I try to urge the clumps of sand to fully release.
I lift my gaze, watching others as they lift their boxes and swish it back and forth, and I mimic their actions. The sand washes away, disappearing into a hole at the very end of the table where I have no doubt it's collected and used to refill the pails.
Disappointment fills my chest as I look around and see others lifting massive rocks and stones into the air in celebration. That's why you get the bigger pails. This is a classic you get what you pay for situation, and although I know I have no right to be upset, I realize that maybe I, like the little boy who was in line behind me, too, wanted diamonds.
The growl of a motorcycle pulls my attention as I gather my paltry treasures into the bag provided, but the sound disappears before I can spot the bike.
It's the third time today I've heard the sound. It drew my attention, knowing that the stranger who sat and stared at me for hours last night was the one who parked in The Lost Kitten's parking lot. Motorcycles never even registered to me before then, and knowing my track record, I should probably ignore them now.
My hands feel frostbitten as I complete my collection and head toward the store the clerk told me about, but I doubt I have anything worth turning into jewelry. The idea of watching them make a ring or necklace out of something I dug out of sand sounds pretty neat.