My Grandpa Nick says that everyone needs a dream. He says dreams give you a reason to keep trying. Then he asks me about my dreams and tells me that being 10 is no excuse for not having any.

I have two. The first is a big one—to find the treasure that my great-uncle Jimmy lost. Grandpa helps me with that one. It seems that Uncle Jimmy buried a bag of money and seven silver spoons, and then forgot where he put them. Before Uncle Jimmy passed away, he whispered to Grandpa that he thought it was all hidden in an alleyway in my New York City neighborhood.

Grandpa and I scour the streets for it every chance we get. Last week we searched near a candy store. I came home with a bag of gummy bears, chocolate bars, and a monster stomachache. But no treasure.

Since Grandpa Nick knows all about my first dream, I tell him about the second—I want to earn my orange belt in karate. “It’s not really much of a dream,” I say. “It’s not like a buried treasure dream.” A buried treasure dream is a really big dream, like finding Uncle Jimmy’s spoons and money.

Or going for a black belt.

A black belt is the highest rank in martial arts. An orange belt means you’re no longer a beginner, but it also means you have far to go. Since I’ve been studying for two years now, I should have been an orange belt a long time ago. It’s hardly a dream at all.

Grandpa disagrees. “Wanting an orange belt is nothing to be ashamed of, Alex. Not all dreams are big buried treasure dreams.” Grandpa Nick rests his hand on his cane. “What you’ve got is a good, little dream that’s within reach. That’s what I call a silver dollar dream. Nothing wrong with that.”

What I didn’t tell Grandpa was that I had more of a chance of finding Uncle Jimmy’s treasure and the ghost of Uncle Jimmy himself than I had of reaching my silver dollar dream.

Everyone who goes for an orange belt has to break a board. The scariest part? It has to be done bare-handed. Boards are hard and solid. Even the thought of hitting one makes my fingers numb.

“Your punches and kicks are good,” Grandpa Nick says. “Remember, there’s nothing wrong with a little dream. Have enough of them, and they can turn into something big.” Grandpa reaches into his pocket and tosses me a coin. “A silver dollar for your silver dollar dream.”

That Tuesday, Mom drops me off at the karate school. I bow at the door before I step into the room. I say hello to Sensei Foster—sensei means teacher in Japanese. Then I search for my friend Jocelyn.

I find her in the corner, practicing her kicks and punches. “Are you going for your orange belt?” she asks. “The test is tomorrow.”

I shrug.

“All you have to do is break a board. Sensei says you’re ready.”

I shrug again.

“The secret is to pretend the board isn’t there. That’s what I do,” Jocelyn whispers.

Pretend the board isn’t there? That’s like trying to pretend that Superman is a wimp. Some things can’t be done.

Before I can ask Jocelyn any questions, Sensei Foster tells us it’s time to practice board-breaking. One by one, the students face Sensei Foster. I listen to the sound that each board makes when it breaks. Sometimes it’s a sharp, quick snap. Other times it’s a long crackle, like someone poured milk onto a giant bowl of Rice Krispies.

Sensei calls my name. He holds the board firm. “Focus. Don’t aim at it. Aim through it. See past it.”

But all I can see is the board in front of me, and all I can think about are the many things that are made from wood.

Sturdy things.

Hard things.

Like baseball bats.

And chairs.

Fences.

Houses.

Hard-to-break things.

I close my eyes. And I hit the board.

A sharp sting runs through my hand. The board stays solid and whole. I try to hide my pain.

Jocelyn mouths the words “try again.” And Sensei Foster says the same thing out loud.

Instead, I bow to show that I’m done. “There’s another test in a few weeks,” Sensei Foster says as he pats my shoulder. “I hope you’ll try again.”

When I reach my apartment, Mom is sitting in the kitchen. Grandpa, who is usually in the living room waiting for me, is not around.

“I have some bad news,” she says. “Grandpa Nick fell today. Your dad is with him at the hospital.”

I reach for the silver dollar in my pocket and hold it tight. “Is he OK?”

Mom nods. “Bad sprain. It’s going to take him a while to recover.”

Later that night, Grandpa comes home. Instead of his cane, he uses a squeaky metal walker.

For the next few weeks, Grandpa doesn’t leave our apartment. There are no trips to get candy. No searching the streets for Uncle Jimmy’s treasure.

“When is he going to be off that thing?” I ask my dad one morning, pointing to the walker.

“His leg is probably healed enough for him to be off it now,” says Dad. “But he’s worried about falling again. This is hard for him.”

I hate the squeak. And how Grandpa Nick never once asks about my dreams. I miss the old Grandpa.

After school, I go to Jocelyn’s house. She helps me with my punches, and I pretend that pillows are boards.

“If only I could take a pillow-bashing test, I’d have that orange belt for sure,” I say as we walk to karate class.

“Pillow. Board. What’s the difference?” asks Jocelyn.

What is the difference? I wonder. I remember what Grandpa said—my punches and kicks are good. Suddenly, I realize that I already have what it takes. “I will break it,” I whisper.

Later that afternoon, I rush home. The first thing I do is ask Grandpa about his dreams.

When he tells me he’s not sure, I tell him that being 75 is a poor excuse for not having any dreams. And I bring him his cane and hand him back his silver dollar.

“Take one step with your cane,” I say. “It’s what I call a silver dollar dream. Remember, there’s nothing wrong with a little dream. Have enough of them, and they can turn into something big.”

Then I take the broken board from my knapsack and add, “Wait till I tell you what happened in karate class today.”