Dopey shook the carton. "There's still some left," he said.

"Mixed with your backwash?" I heaved a shudder. "I think not."

Dopey opened his mouth to say something - presumably his usual suggestion that I chew on some piece of his anatomy - but his father's voice called from outside the sliding glass doors to the deck.

"Brad," Andy yelled. "That's enough of a break. Get back out here and help me lower this."

Dopey slammed down the carton of OJ. Before he could stalk from the room, however, I stopped him with a polite, "Excuse me?"

Because he wore no shirt, I could see the muscles in Dopey's neck and shoulders tense as I spoke.

"All right already," he said, spinning around and heading back toward the juice carton. "I'll put it away. Jeez, why are you always on me about crap like - "

"I don't care about that," I interrupted him, pointing at the juice carton - although it had to have been making the counter sticky. "I want to know what that is."

Dopey looked where I'd moved my finger. He blinked down at the dirt-encrusted oblong object.

"I dunno," he said. "I found it buried in the yard while I was digging out one of the posts."

I gingerly lifted what appeared to be a metal box, about six inches long by two inches thick, heavily rusted and covered in mud. There were a few places where the mud had rubbed off, though, and there you could see some words painted on the box. The few I could make out were delicious aroma and quality assured. When I shook the box, it rattled. There was something inside.

"What's in it?" I asked Dopey.

He shrugged. "How should I know? It's rusted shut. I was gonna take a - "

I never did find out what Dopey was going to do to the box, since his older brother Sleepy walked into the kitchen at that moment, reached for the orange juice carton, opened it, and downed the remaining contents. When he was through, he crumpled the carton, threw it into the trash compactor, and then, apparently noticing my appalled expression, said, "What?"