Chapter 5: Forty-Seven Umbrellas

Three mornings later, I opened the front door to grab the newspaper and dropped my coffee mug.

It shattered across the porch. Hot coffee splashed my ankle, but I barely felt it.

Because our lawn was covered in umbrellas.

Forty-seven of them.

They stood open in perfect rows from the mailbox to the maple tree. Beneath each one sat a small white box with a number painted on the lid.

One to forty-seven.

“Mom?” Eli called behind me.

He stepped onto the porch barefoot, his hair sticking up.

“Careful,” I warned. “I dropped my mug. Don’t step on the glass.”

He froze.

Then he saw the lawn.

“What is this?”

I didn’t know what to say. Then I noticed our neighbors gathered on the sidewalk, several with phones raised. Continue Reading ⬇️