“I have absolutely no idea.”
We stepped onto the porch.
Almost every lunchbox had something taped to it.
A note.
A drawing.
A heart cut from construction paper.
One said:
KINDNESS SHOULD NEVER GO HUNGRY.
Another:
FOR THE BOY WHO SHARED HIS LUNCH WITHOUT SHARING HIS LUNCH.
I looked at Caleb.s
My stomach tightened.
Someone knew.
Someone knew what he had done.
Then Caleb pointed toward the center of the lawn.
“Mom. What’s that?”
Sitting alone between all the colorful lunchboxes was one that looked nothing like the others.
It was huge.
Metal.
Dented.
The kind of lunchbox construction workers carried decades ago.
Rust marked the corners, and the handle had been wrapped several times in black electrical tape.
A white envelope had been taped across the lid.
Three words were written on it in thick black marker.
OPEN THIS FIRST.
Something about it made every hair on my arms rise.s
