Then I stopped cold.
Our lawn had disappeared.
It was covered with lunchboxes.
There had to be at least fifty.
Maybe more.
Some had dinosaurs on them.
Others had superheroes.
There were pink ones, blue ones, old-fashioned metal boxes, insulated bags, cartoon characters, and plain brown lunch sacks.
They stretched from our porch almost all the way to the sidewalk.
Noah slowly turned toward me.
“Are these all mine?”
“I have no idea.”
Cyril stepped outside.
“What on earth…”
Then Noah noticed one lunchbox sitting by itself in the center of the yard.
It was huge.
Old.
Metal.
And badly scratched.
Across the lid, someone had taped a white card.
OPEN THIS FIRST.
“Noah, don’t—”
Too late.
He hurried toward it and dropped to his knees.
The metal latch clicked open.
He lifted the lid.
And went completely still.
“Noah?”
No answer.
Then he stumbled backward so fast that he almost tripped over another lunchbox.
