People usually reserve school nights for studying and last-minute homework assignments. An early shower and snuggling up beneath the covers is the best routine. Provided, of course, the routine stays on script.

“Stop throwing dirt at me!” Caleb cried.

“Stop whining and keep digging!” Krystal huffed.

She dug hard into the dark dirt. The moonlight was her only source of light. Fresh out of the shower, and she’s back in the muck of soil and sweat.

“I said I was sorry already,” Caleb drove his shovel down hard.

Krystal groaned, “Let’s get this over with.”

Caleb was not designed for digging; the darkness underlined it.

Krystal did alright. She dug holes for the plants around the family home. She was used to the heat and humidity of the day or the strong spring winds at night. Krystal thought she could finish this midnight errand fast enough to make it back before their parents knew they were gone. But the graveyard duty proved a much harder challenge than she had anticipated.

Her brother had a habit of dragging her into yet another ridiculous patch-up job.

After the burial of their grandfather that prior afternoon, Krystal had caught her older brother’s wild eyes from across the crowd. The dread on his face forced Krystal to convene with him behind the event hall, where their family had gathered after the funeral.

“It just slipped out of my hands,” he confessed.

“You dropped it? In the coffin?” Krystal shouted.

“Not so loud,” Caleb shushed her.

“What kind of moron steals Dad’s gold pen, brings it to a funeral, and then loses it in our grandfather’s coffin!?” Krystal punched him in the arm.

“I thought it made my suit look nicer-” Caleb rubbed his pained arm.

“I could kill you!” Krystal grabbed his collar.

“Alright. I’m sorry,” Caleb reeled. “Dad will ground me for life if I don’t get that pen back.”

“If we don’t get it back. We won’t have a life!” Krystal growled, shoving him away.

Dad’s gold pen was more expensive than the family home. His inheritance from his late grandmother. He had promised it would go towards both of their college funds. Something that felt so far away before. But now, it was a vital piece of the puzzle.

Krystal had just gotten accepted to her dream school, receiving little to no financial assistance. It wasn’t just a pen. It was rent, tuition, textbooks, every scraped-together plan for a future that felt too fragile. A life of her own wrapped in freedom. She needed that pen.

Which led them here, unearthing their grandfather under the night sky.

It had been at least an hour or two before they finally hit the top of the casket. The night sky was draped over them. Krystal had bet on moonlight doing the job, but between their black clothes and the graveyard-grade dirt coating them, they looked like two smudges arguing with the dark. Staying unnoticed had been the plan, but without a flashlight, they were one misplaced step from becoming permanent residents.

“Get the flashlight,” Krystal instructed, throwing her shovel to the side.

Caleb dropped his own and pulled the flashlight from his back pocket.

“Finally,” Caleb sighed.

Krystal glared at him and  jumped into the hole. Her heart pounded hard enough to crack ribs, while he stayed casual, like grave-robbing was another weekend hobby. She hated how cool he looked every time she risked her life for him—though admitting that was out of the question.

Krystal clawed at the opening like a dumpster-diving raccoon, desperate for the entire disaster to be over with.

“Help me,” she called to Caleb.

Caleb was observing from the edge of the hole, holding the flashlight at the wrong angle.

“Uh, maybe I should keep a lookout,” he said. “I don’t think I can—”

“Get in here!” Krystal demanded, pulling him down by the ends of his slacks.

He fell next to her, face-first into the solid casket.

He jumped up and tried to wipe the dirt off his face with his sleeve, only managing to smear it around more.

“Uggh!” he gagged. “Dead person dirt.”

“Oh, knock it off!” Krystal snarled. “Just help me so we can get out of here!”

They both pulled at the opening and forced the casket open.

There, their grandfather lay, purple, still, and asleep.

The siblings said nothing at first. They paused, realizing they had just dug up their dead grandfather. How can two teenagers be so desperate for an inheritance that they would abandon their ethics?

Then Krystal took a breath. She couldn’t consider that now. Decisions had been made, and they were in too deep at this point, literally.

“Krystal…” Caleb started.

Krystal held up her hand.

“Don’t think about it and start looking,” she instructed.

Caleb swallowed hard and nodded.

They leaned over their grandfather’s coffin with the frantic focus of people who knew they were out of time and out of good ideas. The search had to be done. It was a hurried rummage through the lining and folds, every second stretched tight with apprehension  they tried not to show and disgust they couldn’t quite hide. They lifted the arms and shifted the legs with a rushed, unsettled care, as if movement might make the situation worse.

Every touch carried a sharp edge of disgust that they tried and failed to hide, hands pulling back too quickly before forcing themselves forward again. They took turns to look over their shoulders. Although it should have been important, getting caught was the least of their worries. The mission wasn’t supposed to drag on—it was meant to be quick, clean, and over before things got complicated.

The evening air was cool, but the tension between them made them sweat.

Krystal hesitated but forced herself to pinch the end of her grandfather’s suit sleeve and pull his arm up. He was colder than she anticipated and heavier, too. It felt like lifting a lead mannequin. Her nose scrunched tight in disgust, the expression sharp and unintentional—though all she smelled was the earthy grit of dirt lodged where it did not belong. The distant creak of trees rubbing together made the siblings jump.

The search ended after ten agonizing minutes. The pen wasn’t there.

“Where the hell is it, Caleb?” Krystal hissed.

“I don’t know!” Caleb rasped. “I’m sure it was here!”

“If we did this all for nothing, I swear I’ll—” Krystal growled.

“Why would I lie?” Caleb argued.

“Then where is it!?” Krystal snapped.

“I don’t know!” Caleb urged, pushing himself up from the open casket.

Krystal closed it.

Caleb paced in the hole, which was two steps wide.

“I swore… I had it in my hands, and then, I leaned over to say goodbye to Grandpa…” he muttered to himself.

Krystal watched, amazed, as he slipped into another one of his self-psychoanalysis monologues. She waited for him to either finish spiraling or remember he had an audience. Neither happened. If sibling burnout were real, she wouldn’t have it—she’d be the case study for it. There was a constant low-grade tension in her muscles and jaw. Krystal struggled to endure him most of the time, but she wouldn’t leave him either. Always right on the edge of whatever poor decision was about to become her problem, too.

Caleb shoved his hands into his pants pockets and froze.

“Are you still wearing your slacks from the funeral?” Krystal observed.

He stood rigid, eyes wide. The air grew tense.

“What?” Krystal asked.

Caleb said nothing and pulled the golden pen from his left pocket.

Krystal froze. There it was. For a full second, everything went still. Then came the slow, sinking horror: the digging, the urgency, the disturbed grave, the everything—all of it for a pen that had been casually hitchhiking in H&M slacks.

Caleb noticed his sister’s darkened eyes. He was done for. Not in figurative terms. Not “this might be bad.” Done. For.

“Wait. Hold on, it was a mistake. Honest.” Caleb reeled.

He tried to step away from her, but pressed himself into the dirt wall behind him instead.

Krystal kissed the tips of her fingers and touched them to her grandfather’s casket.

“Sorry, Grandpa,” she sighed.

She remained silent and reached out to grab the pen from Caleb.  Without eye contact, Krystal slipped it into her own pocket, tucking it in like something fragile and final. She knew that Caleb would never make up for the several years of future therapy they had just put themselves through. Something in her expression went very still. Before he could even form a sentence, she shoved him backward and pulled herself out of the hole.

He dropped into the casket hole with a startled, undignified thud, all offense and confusion and dirt-stained regret. With a stunned gasp, he looked up at her like this might still be part of a conversation she might want to have.

It wasn’t.

She didn’t say a word. Just stood at the edge, breathing hard, eyes flat with exhausted anger.  A shovel appeared in her hands. No explanation, no hesitation. There was dirt, scooped and flung with the rage of someone who had decided emotional closure required landscaping.

“Krystal. I’m sorry!” Caleb cried.

Her anger didn’t rise so much as clicked into place—cold, immediate, and done with discussion. She would not yell or bargain, but concluded with quiet assurance that this situation had exceeded all tolerable limits.

“Krystal! Stop!” Caleb shrieked.

“Dig yourself out this time,” Krystal sneered.

While the siblings argued under the blanket of stars, a siren wailed, and flashing red and blue lights illuminated them.

“Crap!” they both gulped.

School nights were never normal for these siblings—just open invitations for questionable decisions.

Editor: Lucy Cafiero