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 ⬇️
