The note left by our delivery driver sent me racing to the trash cans in my backyard, setting off a series of events I never could have predicted. His cryptic warning may have shielded my family from a potential threat, but the danger wasn’t entirely behind us.
When I’m too tired to cook for my kids, I usually order delivery. Over time, we’d gotten to know Ravi, our regular driver. He always greeted my kids, Kai and Isla, with a friendly chat and a high-five. But last Tuesday, things were different.
That night, Ravi arrived looking tense. He handed over the food quickly and rushed back to his motorcycle without a word.
“What’s wrong with Ravi?” Kai asked, watching him speed away.
I shrugged, just as confused. “No idea, buddy. Maybe he’s in a hurry.”
As I unpacked the food, I noticed a hastily written message on one of the bags: “CHECK YOUR TRASH CAN.”
Heart racing, I calmly sent the kids to wash up and went to the backyard alone. Lifting the trash can lid, I found a grimy blanket covering a set of gloves, some small tools, and an unlabeled bottle of liquid.
Just then, Isla’s voice pulled me back. “Mom? Are you okay?”
I quickly shut the lid and forced a smile. “Yes, sweetie. Just checking something. Go inside; I’ll be there soon.”
Inside, I called the sheriff’s office and described what I’d found. The dispatcher, Leona, instructed, “Stay inside with the kids and don’t touch anything. I’ll send someone over right away.”
Our neighborhood had recently been hit by break-ins, and with a chill, I realized my house might have been next.
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