FOR LONG MOMENTS, Rodney Brincefield stared at nothing.

The girl was gone.

He feared he’d made a big mistake.

Why did I tell her about Jonathan’s treasure?

That’s how Brincefield thought of it, even after so many years. Even though Jonathan had never once mentioned sharing.

Brincefield stood still as a statue. But his mind circled back to his youth.

Poor Jonathan.

Today they’d call it a disability. Clubfoot. Not severe enough to prevent him from walking, but sufficient for rejection from the army.

Jonathan had been devastated. He’d wanted to fight Nazis, had gone to enlist with the other able-bodied men. Brincefield remembered his brother’s torment when told he couldn’t serve. When left behind.

The army’s decision had eaten at Jonathan. Made him feel like a failure. Less a man. Ashamed.

For weeks, Jonathan had refused to leave the farmhouse. Bottle after bottle disappeared down his throat. Brincefield had feared for his brother’s life.

Until the day they heard the legend of Anne Bonny. Then everything changed.

“Obsession,” Brincefield whispered.

Jonathan caught pirate-treasure fever. Became fixated, to the exclusion of all else. No one understood it.

None but Rodney Brincefield. He knew his brother was haunted, that Jonathan needed to find Bonny’s treasure to expunge his disgrace. To show everyone the army was wrong.

For months, Jonathan spoke of nothing else. He ranged far and wide seeking stories, rumors, anything pointing to the treasure’s location.

The world thought he’d lost his mind.

I was the only one who listened, Brincefield thought. I was his sounding board. His confidant. Eight years old, and just as hooked. The treasure came to dominate my thoughts, too.

Brincefield saw the images clear as day. The little boy plotting with his adored older brother. The excited chats in the old barn behind the farmhouse. Bonny’s lost horde was the topic that bridged the age difference. That connected them more powerfully than their shared blood.

Those were the happiest days of Brincefield’s childhood.

Then, one day, Jonathan vanished.

He’d gone to chase down a lead. A real scorcher, he’d said. He’d left no clue about his destination, only hinted that he was closer than ever before.

Brincefield never saw him again.

No one did. Everyone assumed the Mad Clubfoot had finally despaired and taken his own life. They’d muttered condolences, held a Mass, and gotten on with things.

Not Brincefield. He knew better. The treasure had become too important to Jonathan. He’d never have stopped until it was his.

Brincefield felt his chest heave. The ache was still there, as strong as half a century before. Not knowing. It was terrible. He squeezed his eyes shut.

“Jonathan’s treasure.” Brincefield spoke to the empty dining room.

The old man turned from the windows.

“Jonathan’s treasure,” he repeated. Quiet, but firm.

“My treasure.”

Straightening his tie, Brincefield strode from the chamber.