All of my life, I sought adventure… I would follow paths to find hidden Gold or jump off high cliffs to feel the pulse of adrenaline. My life was black and white before I found artifacts and Old nick-nacks.

My Brother and mom died 5 years ago, and my Dad died less than 1 year ago. With them gone, my spark had died, nights felt restless, and light seemed to fade.

“What’s your next adventure?” Oliva—my best friend—said. A gorgeous 20-year-old blonde with a huge personality and a bag so big she could fit Narnia in there.

“I’m not sure,” I twirl around, arms wide open, embracing the wind and rushing tides behind me.

“You’re not sure?” She asked a hint of surprise in her voice.

“Yeah,” I nodded.

“But lately I’ve been thinking…” I paused for the dramatic effect.

“What!” She said eagerly.

“Well, there is this place…”

“Now that’s more like my best friend,” a grin appeared on her face.

“It’s called ‘The marsh of clovers.”

She rests her head on her hands, her eyes dancing, “That sounds interesting.”

“You want to come too, _don’t you?” _

_ “_Please!” She smiles wide, trying to persuade me.

“Fine,” I give in—truth be told—she was going to come anyway.

“So what are we looking for? Some mysterious crab statue, a chicken leg? OO! Maybe it’s an ancient artifact of clovers.”

“Hm, you’re right, Chicken leg sounds about right,” I say, holding in a laugh.

“What is it?” She pleads, obviously excited.

“Well… we’re going to look for a golden horseshoe.”

“Are you serious?” She asks in unbelief.

“Yes.” I laugh. “If that’s not glamorous enough for you, maybe you don’t want to come,” I pout dramatically.

“I’m coming, and plus, you’re going to get tired driving all the way there yourself.”

“Okay, then it’s a date.”

I say goodbye to my tiny beach house in the middle of Saint James, Barbados. And we pack our luggage in the car.

“How long is this going to take?”

“I’m not sure. I found a clue in a dusty book from the library, ‘When the storm comes, my compass always points to…”

“North?” She asked.

“I’m thinking that’s right.” I say, and I can see her proud smile forming.

“Where too?”

“In the book, there were pictures of this lake,” I showed her the photos from my phone.

“That’s the same one in Bridgetown!” She said, excitedly.

“_Exactly_,” I grin and nod.

It’s been 20 minutes and suddenly a car is following us.

I turn on a familiar road.

“Lillian,” Oliva says under her breath.

“I know,” I say.

“Prepare yourself,” I say, then swerve.

I feel the thrill rushing through me, on the other hand—Oliva is freaking out beside me.

“It’s okay,” I say trying to calm her.

Looking to the right mirror I see, she’s enjoying this—I must’ve misunderstood.

Speeding up, the white car—who’s following us—does the same.

This time there is no one in my lane, so I reverse, do a 360, and then head the other direction. The other car seems to slow down.

“Why did the other car just stop all of a sudden?” Oliva asked, knowing there was no answer.

“I have _no_ idea.”