“Stay here,” I told Caleb.
Naturally, being seven, he followed me anyway.
We crossed the wet grass.
I crouched beside the metal box and pulled the envelope loose.
Inside was a single piece of paper.
There was no name.
Just a sentence.
Your son reminded me of a little girl I failed a long time ago. This belongs to him now—but I hope he chooses someone else to give it to.
I read it twice.
“What does that mean?” Caleb asked.
“I don’t know.”
He reached for the latch.
“Caleb—”
Too late.
The lid opened.
For several seconds, my son didn’t move.
Then all the color drained from his face.
“Mom…”
He stumbled backward.
I hurried around him and looked inside.
Then I understood.
At the bottom of the battered lunchbox were stacks of cash.
Thousands of dollars.
Maybe tens of thousands.
But that wasn’t what made Caleb go pale.
