He had walked in his sleep again — that had to be the explanation for his muddy feet. The last time he had done that, his father had found him out in the backyard, though Hobson had no recollection of ever leaving his bed.

He stripped off the dirty sheets and threw them down the laundry chute. If his parents, and his mother, especially, knew that he had wandered out into the woods alone at night and had somehow returned without them knowing, they’d be worried sick. His mother would probably start sleeping outside his bedroom. Or worse, they would make him sleep in their bedroom. The thought made Hobson shiver.

He tiptoed into the bathroom and washed his feet in the tub, then went back into his bedroom and cleaned up the trail of dirty footprints across the floor. Satisfied that all evidence of his sleepwalking had been erased, Hobson got dressed.

He scooped up a pair of shorts and a tee shirt from the floor and put them on, slipped his feet into socks, and stepped into his black, high-top Chuck Taylors.

Hobson stood at the top of the back staircase, which went down into the kitchen. The rich smell of bacon and eggs frying and cinnamon rolls baking wafted up to the second floor. His stomach rumbled. Breakfast was his favorite meal of the day. He hurried down the stairs and into the kitchen, where he found Grandma Gwen standing at the counter, pouring a cup of coffee.

“Good morning, dear. You’re out of bed early.”

“Morning, Grandma.” Hobson went over to her and stood on his toes. Though small for his age, Hobson clung to the hope that he had inherited the height gene from his father’s side of the family. Grandma leaned down to accept a peck on the cheek. Maybe someday he would not need to get on his tiptoes to kiss his grandmother.

Gwendolyn Doyle was nearly six feet tall, and her long raven hair, piled in a tight beehive bun, added to her stature. Her eyes were as dark as the coffee in her cup.

“Would you like me to make scrambled eggs?” she asked.

“Sure. I’m starving.” Hobson rubbed his stomach for emphasis.

“I had a feeling you would say yes.” On the counter beside the stove Grandma had already filled a bowl with eggs and milk. She turned on a burner and poured the mixture into a frying pan.

As the eggs began to cook, she said to Hobson, “Would you let your father know that his breakfast is getting cold?”

“Sure, Grandma.” Hobson crossed the large, airy kitchen and opened the basement door. He went downstairs to his father’s workshop.

Hanging from the walls were tools of every shape and size. Screwdrivers, hammers, drills, saws, and chisels were grouped together in one area, pliers, clamps, and wrenches in another. On one of the long work benches sections of cut pipe lay discarded, the silver shavings littering the concrete floor like curled metal worms.

But that was only the outer workshop. Behind a door at the far end was where the “serious work” was done, as Hobson’s father often said about that second section. The door was kept locked whenever he was not in there. Hobson knocked.

“Come in,” called his father from the other side.

Hobson entered.

The second room was much larger than the outer shop. It was the size of the kitchen, living room, and dining room combined. And if the outer workshop was the foyer, then the work space Hobson now stood in was the grand hall. Filled with shiny machines, gizmos and gadgets which seemed better suited for the space shuttle, this inner sanctum had the white-walled, pristine feel of a laboratory, and it gave Hobson a trill of excitement to imagine the important work his father was conducting there.

“Good morning, son” Leland Doyle stood at a computer terminal, which sat on a long stainless steel table.

Leland was tall and thin, with a mop of dark hair and dark eyes like Grandma. He was dressed for a typical Saturday, wearing an old pair of blue jeans and a tee shirt for working around the house, clothes which he referred to as his knockabout clothes.

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“Grandma wanted me to tell you that breakfast is ready.”

“Okay, thanks. I’m just waiting for the results of an experiment.”

Hobson went over to where his father stood. “What’re you working on?” he asked.

“Well,” began his father tentatively, “I’m splicing the genes of one plant and combining it with another.”

“Why?”

Leland rubbed his hands together as if he were cold, a habit of his when he was about to explain a complex procedure in a simple way. “To reverse the breakdown of a plant’s cellular structure…to reverse it’s natural aging process.”

“You’re trying to make plants live forever?” Hobson asked.

“No,” said his father. “They would not live forever, but they would have restored life…a second spring, so to speak.”

Hobson shrugged. “Cool. Are you coming upstairs now?”

“Absolutely. I’m ravenous.”

As Hobson watched his father read over the results of his experiment with plant genes, he felt an unexpected sense of pride swell in his chest. His dad was one of the smartest people Hobson knew, maybe one of the smartest people in the entire town of Echo Hill. His mom had said about his dad that because he looked at the world so deeply, he alone saw things in it that others never would. Leland Doyle was rarely satisfied with surface appearances. Grandma Gwen said once about her son that he was born with an insatiable curiosity and an explorer’s heart.

“How’d the experiment go?” Hobson asked.

His father turned away from the computer, the printout of the test results in his hand. He grinned and adjusted his glasses. “Better than expected. The aged genes accepted the spliced genes in a way I hadn’t anticipated. They bonded quicker than I thought they would.”

“So it was a success?”

Leland frowned slightly. “In a manner of speaking. The fusion of old and new genes lasted only a few minutes, not long enough for the young genes to replicate and reverse the aging process. There’s still much of the puzzle yet unsolved.”

“You’ll figure it out, Dad. I know you will.”

“Thanks, kiddo, I appreciate your support.”

Back upstairs, Hobson and his father sat down to eat breakfast.

Shortly after eight o’clock, Hobson’s mother came into the kitchen. She wore a floral-print sundress as bright and summery as the day. Her honey-colored hair, arranged in its usual single braid, reached the center of her back.

“Morning, Hobby,” she said, kissing the top of his head.

“Hi, Mom,” he said around a mouthful of cinnamon roll. He swallowed. “Today’s the All-Star game. You’re coming, aren’t you? Coach says I’m starting at second, but he’ll probably have me pitch, too.” He looked at his mother, father, and grandmother in turn, waiting for their unanimous consent.

“Of course we’ll be there,” said his father. “But the game isn’t until this afternoon at three o’clock – right? Or did I miss a schedule change?” He looked first at his wristwatch and then up at the clock on the wall above the kitchen table.

“No change,” said Hobson, disappointed.

“He’s up early,” his mother said, “because he and I have a date.” She poured a cup of coffee and turned toward her son, smiling. “We’re going in search of treasure.”

Hobson nodded at his father, wiping thick white frosting from his mouth. “Me and Mom –”

“Mom and I,” corrected his father.

“Mom and I are going to the flea market.”

“That sounds exciting,” Leland said. “Happy hunting.”

Turning from the sink, Grandma Gwen said to Hobson, “Perhaps this is the day you make your great discovery.”

Hobson shrugged. “Maybe.”

He had been going to yard sales with his mother since he was seven years old and had over the years become as astute at spotting real bargains as she. Hobson had developed a taste for the hunt, a passion for perusing folding tables littered with the most atrocious junk and finding something of worth among the worthless.

His mother referred to this as value liberation. She meant that it took a certain kind of person, a value liberator, to find value in an object that everyone else, including the item’s original owner, considered something to throw away. There had been plenty of news reports of people finding really valuable things, like an original copy of the Declaration of Independence at yard sales to spur Hobson on, with the hope that someday he too would make an important discovery.

So far, though, all he and his mother had ever come home with were things that had value for the two of them alone – Hobson’s Bride of Frankenstein clock, for instance.

With breakfast finished, and his teeth brushed, Hobson joined his mother out on the front porch. She wore a wide-brimmed hat to shade her fair complexion from the sun and large dark sunglasses to protect her blue eyes.

“Ready?” she asked.

“Ready.” Hobson was eager for the quest to begin.