I saw the Great Pyramid and got thirsty.

Maybe it was all the sand. So dry and yellow, it seemed to stretch on forever. It even made the sky look dry.

I poked my mom in the side. “Mom, I’m really thirsty.”

“Not now,” she said. She had one hand up on her forehead, shielding her eyes from the bright sun as she stared up at the enormous pyramid.

Not now?

What does “not now” mean? I was thirsty. Now!

Someone bumped me from behind and apologized in a foreign language. I never dreamed when I saw the Great Pyramid there’d be so many other tourists. I guess half the people in the world decided to spend their Christmas vacation in Egypt this year.

“But, Mom—” I said. I didn’t mean to whine. It was just that my throat was so dry. “I’m really thirsty.”

“We can’t get you a drink now,” she answered, staring at the pyramid. “Stop acting like you’re four. You’re twelve, remember?”

“Twelve-year-olds get thirsty, too,” I muttered. “All this sand in the air, it’s making me gag.”

“Look at the pyramid,” she said, sounding a little irritated. “That’s why we came here. We didn’t come here to get a drink.”

“But I’m choking!” I cried, gasping and holding my throat.

Okay, so I wasn’t choking. I exaggerated a little, just trying to get her attention. But she pulled the brim of her straw hat down and continued to stare up at the pyramid, which shimmered in the heat.

I decided to try my dad. As usual, he was studying the handful of guidebooks he always carried everywhere. I don’t think he’d even looked at the pyramid yet. He always misses everything because he always has his nose buried in a guidebook.

“Dad, I’m really thirsty,” I said, whispering as if my throat were strained to get my message across.

“Wow. Do you know how wide the pyramid is?” he asked, staring at a picture of the pyramid in his book.

“I’m thirsty, Dad.”

“It’s thirteen acres wide, Gabe,” he said, really excited. “Do you know what it’s made of?”

I wanted to say Silly Putty.

He’s always testing me. Whenever we go on a trip, he always asks me a million questions like that. I don’t think I’ve ever answered one right.

“Some kind of stone?” I answered.

“That’s right.” He smiled at me, then turned back to his book. “It’s made of limestone. Limestone blocks. It says here that some of the blocks weigh up to a thousand tons.”

“Whoa,” I said. “That’s more than you and Mom put together!”

He turned his eyes from the book and frowned at me. “Not funny, Gabe.”

“Just kidding,” I said. Dad’s a little sensitive about his weight, so I try to tease him about it as often as I can.

“How do you think the ancient Egyptians moved stones that weighed a thousand tons?” he asked.

Quiz time wasn’t over.

I took a guess. “In trucks?”

He laughed. “Trucks? They didn’t have the wheel.”

I shielded my eyes and stared up at the pyramid. It was really huge, much bigger than it looks in pictures. And much dryer.

I couldn’t imagine how they pulled those big stones across the sand without wheels. “I don’t know,” I confessed. “I’m really thirsty.”

“No one knows how they did it,” Dad said.

So it was a trick question.

“Dad, I really need a drink.”

“Not now,” he said. He squinted at the pyramid. “Gives you a funny feeling, doesn’t it?”

“It gives me a thirsty feeling,” I said, trying to get my point across.

“No. I mean, it gives me a funny feeling to think that our ancestors—yours and mine, Gabe—may have walked around these pyramids, or even helped to build them. It gives me kind of a chill. How about you?”

“I guess,” I told him. He was right. It was kind of exciting.

We’re Egyptian, you see. I mean, both sets of my grandparents came from Egypt. They moved to the United States around 1930. My mom and dad were both born in Michigan. We were all very excited to see the country our ancestors came from.

“I wonder if your uncle Ben is down inside that pyramid right now,” Dad said, shielding his eyes from the sun with one hand.

Uncle Ben Hassad. I had nearly forgotten about my uncle, the famous archaeologist. Uncle Ben was another one of the reasons we had decided to come to Egypt over the holidays. That and the fact that my mom and dad had some business to do in Cairo and Alexandria and some other places.

Mom and Dad have their own business. They sell refrigeration equipment. It usually isn’t very exciting. But sometimes they travel to neat places, like Egypt, and I get to go with them.

I turned my eyes to the pyramids and thought about my uncle.

Uncle Ben and his workers were digging around in the Great Pyramid, exploring and discovering new mummies, I guess. He had always been fascinated by our ancestors’ homeland. He had lived in Egypt for many years. Uncle Ben was an expert on pyramids and mummies. I even saw his picture once in National Geographic.

“When are we going to see Uncle Ben?” I asked, tugging Dad’s arm. I accidentally tugged too hard, and the guidebooks fell out of his hands.

I helped him pick them up.

“Not today,” Dad said, making a face. He didn’t like to bend over to pick up things. His stomach got in the way. “Ben’s going to meet us in Cairo in a few days.”

“Why don’t we go up to the pyramid and see if he’s there now?” I asked impatiently.

“We’re not allowed,” Dad replied.

“Look—camels!” Mom poked me on the shoulder and pointed.

Sure enough, some people had arrived on camels. One of the camels seemed to be having a coughing fit. I guess he was thirsty, too. The people riding the camels were tourists and they looked very uncomfortable. They didn’t seem to know what to do next.

“Do you know how to get down from a camel?” I asked my dad.

He was squinting at the pyramid, studying the top of it. “No. How?”

“You don’t get down from a camel,” I said. “You get down from a duck.”

I know. I know. It’s a very old joke. But my dad and I never get tired of it.

“Do you see the camels?” Mom asked.

“I’m not blind,” I replied. Being thirsty always puts me in a bad mood. Besides, what was so exciting about camels? They were really gross-looking, and they smelled like my gym socks after a basketball game.

“What’s your problem?” Mom asked, fiddling with her straw hat.

“I told you,” I said, not meaning to sound so angry. “I’m thirsty.”

“Gabe, really.” She glanced at Dad, then went back to staring at the pyramid.

“Dad, do you think Uncle Ben can take us inside the pyramid?” I asked enthusiastically. “That would really be outstanding.”

“No, I don’t think so,” he said. He tucked his guidebooks into his armpit so he could raise his binoculars to his eyes. “I really don’t think so, Gabe. I don’t think it’s allowed.”

I couldn’t hide my disappointment. I had all these fantasies about going down into the pyramid with my uncle, discovering mummies and ancient treasures. Fighting off ancient Egyptians who had come back to life to defend their sacred tomb, and escaping after a wild chase, just like Indiana Jones.

“I’m afraid you’ll just have to appreciate the pyramid from the outside,” Dad said, peering over the yellow sand, trying to focus the binoculars.

“I’ve already appreciated it,” I told him glumly. “Can we go get a drink now?”

Little did I know that in a few days, Mom and Dad would be gone, and I would be deep inside the pyramid we were staring at. Not just inside it, but trapped inside it, sealed inside it—probably forever.