It started — or maybe it ended — on a Tuesday in 2019. Or 2017. The records are unclear, mostly because Cole spilled mustard on them. What we know for certain is this: Cole found a map. Not a good map. Not a useful map. A map. It had a big X on it, which experts agree usually means something. Cole took the map home, stared at it for eleven consecutive days, and then did nothing with it for two and a half years. This, Cole would later describe, was 'the most productive phase of the project.'

We are not at liberty to discuss the Hotdog Incident. What we can say is that it involved a farmers market, a gas station, a man named either Gary or Gerald (nobody asked to confirm), and exactly one hotdog that should not have been where it was. The legal settlement — which we are also not discussing — stipulated that Cole must 'do something constructive with all this energy.' A judge may or may not have been involved. The details are sealed. The hotdog, as far as anyone knows, is still out there.

Cole's first adventure was supposed to be climbing a mountain. Instead, it turned out to be walking to the post office, getting distracted by a yard sale, buying a broken compass, and then walking home. The broken compass now sits on Cole's desk, pointing at nothing in particular, which Cole describes as 'metaphorically significant.' When pressed on what the metaphor is, Cole stares at the wall for a long time and then says, 'It's a compass.' This adventure cost $4.50 and took forty minutes.

At some point — nobody remembers exactly when, including Cole — a question was asked. The question was not 'Why?' The question was not 'How?' The question, as best as anyone can reconstruct from the napkin it was written on (the napkin has since been lost), was something like: 'What if people just... gave me a dollar and I gave them... something?' The 'something' was never defined. It has still never been defined. This is, Cole insists, the entire point. A lawyer we consulted about this said, 'Please stop asking me about this,' and then closed their laptop.

Why one dollar? Why not two? Why not fifty cents? Cole has been asked this question many times and has given many different answers, including: 'Inflation,' 'It felt right,' 'A raccoon told me in a dream,' and 'Have you ever held exactly one dollar? It feels like something.' The actual reason, if there is one, is buried in a notebook that Cole left on a bus in 2021. The notebook has not been recovered. The bus has not been identified. The route has been discontinued.

There are 300 mysteries. Or 302. Or 298. The number changes depending on when you ask and whether Cole has had coffee. Each mystery was written, designed, or hallucinated by Cole at various hours of the day and night. Some were found. Some were stolen. At least one was the result of a misunderstanding at a family dinner. One mystery — we will not tell you which one — is just the word 'PICKLE' written in increasingly large font. Cole considers this one 'the masterpiece.' You can decide for yourself whether that's true. You can also decide for yourself whether any of this is true.

There is a thing. We don't talk about it. Cole doesn't talk about it. The hotdog doesn't talk about it. If you figure out what it is, please don't tell anyone, especially us. Especially Cole. Especially the hotdog. It happened in Nevada. Or Nebraska. One of the N states. There was a man, there was a boat, there was a briefcase full of something that was not money and also not not-money. The less said about this, the better. Moving on.

And so here we are. You, reading this. Cole, somewhere, probably eating a hotdog. A dollar, sitting in your wallet, wondering what its purpose is. Three hundred mysteries, waiting in a database, none of them aware that they're mysteries. Is this a business? Sort of. Is it a passion project? Debatable. Is it a cry for help? We've been advised not to answer that. What it is, for certain, is a place where you can exchange one dollar for one something. And isn't that, when you really think about it, the most anyone can offer?