Glasswater Falls thundered behind us as we squeezed into the cave mouth. Three headlamps swung across wet limestone. Old Hennig's map promised a miner's vault down here, and there it was: a steel door, factory-gray, slick with damp. But the scratches around the lock looked fresh. Somebody had been here recently. "Guys," Priya whispered, "that's not rust."

Marco held up a hand. "Wait. Fresh scratches means someone's still down here." He clicked off his headlamp. We stood in the dark, listening over the roar of the falls. Then we heard it—boots on stone, somewhere deeper in the cave. Coming our way.

We ducked behind a boulder and waited. A figure in a soaked rain jacket stumbled past, mud-streaked and shaking. It was a kid, maybe our age, eyes wild with fear. "Don't go to the vault," he gasped to no one. "The floor—it gives way." Then he ran for the cave mouth and was gone.

We ignored the warning and pushed into the vault anyway. The treasure sat right there on a stone table, just out of reach across the trick floor. Marco tested each slab with a pole before stepping. One by one, we crossed safely, grabbed the gold, and crossed back. We walked out winners.