PART 1 — THE LUNCHBOX IN THE MIDDLE OF THE YARD
At 6:27 on a Tuesday morning,s. my seven-year-old son came running into my bedroom so fast he slammed into the doorframe.
“Mom!”
I jerked awake.
Caleb stood there barefoot, his blond hair sticking up in every direction, his dinosaur pajamas twisted around one leg.
“Mom, somebody did something to our yard.”
Those are not words any parent wants to hear before coffee.
I threw on my robe and followed him downstairs.
Then I opened the front door.
And stopped.
Our lawn was covered with lunchboxes.
Not five.
Not ten.
Dozens.
They stretched from the porch steps to the sidewalk.
There were superhero lunchboxes, glittery unicorn ones, camouflage ones, baseball ones, old-fashioned plaid bags, bright plastic boxes covered in cartoon characters.
Some looked brand-new.
Some were scratched and faded, clearly loved by children for years.
I counted twenty before giving up.
Caleb whispered, “Are those all for me?”
