The kind construction workers used to carry.
Dented badly along one side.
Most of the paint worn away until bare steel showed underneath.
And taped across the lid was a white index card.
Four words were written on it.
OPEN THIS ONE FIRST.
My son walked into the wet grass and knelt beside it.
He pulled the card away.
Then he opened the lid.
And froze.
Four seconds.
Five.
Then he suddenly scrambled backward on his hands.
When he finally stood up, his whole expression had changed.
His face had completely drained of color.
He looked at me and said:
Mom…
Call the p.o.l.i.c.e.
I know everyone’s wondering what was inside that old metal lunchbox and why someone had surrounded it with fifty others overnight. If you want the full story, leave a « »YES » » below. »
My son didn’t move.
He just stared at the inside of that old metal lunchbox as if he had forgotten how to breathe.
I stepped closer.
« What is it? »
He didn’t answer.
