Instead, my fingers closed around something cold and heavy.
A brass key.
A red tag hung from it, with an unfamiliar address written in Adam’s handwriting.
A folded piece of notebook paper had been wrapped around the key with a rubber band.
I sat down before opening it.
The first line read:
“Ben, this key is yours.”
My chest tightened.
I kept reading.
“If you ever feel scared or confused, you always have a home with me.”
Then came the line that made me forget how to speak.
“None of this is because of you. Love, Dad.”
The folds had turned white from being opened over and over.
All summer, Ben hadn’t been guarding toys in that green backpack.
He’d been guarding this.
I called Adam.
He answered quickly.
“Hey, Mom. We’re making good time.”
“I found a key in Ben’s bed.”
Silence.
“A key?”
