“You’ll never find it,” Bobbi said, kicking at dry leaves blowing against her feet.
“He left a gift,” Jules said, her hand shading her eyes from the sun. “so he also left a way to find it.”
Bobbi and Jules stood at the corner of a vast meadow, a small grove of elms and oak trees stood at its center. A scattering of leaves, turning shades of ocher and brown in the fall chill, covered the entire field.
“There,” Jules pointed slightly east of the grove.
A white mushroom stood out among the leaves like a signal beacon.