“With your handwriting on the tag.”
Adam gave a short laugh. “It’s probably something from the renovation.”
“Then tell me what it opens.”
Silence again.
“Ben had it under his mattress, Adam.”
“Mom, I’m driving.”
“Then pull over when you can and call me back. Your handwriting is on the tag, and your note is here too.”
“I’ll call you later.”
“Adam, he carried that backpack everywhere for two months. Whatever this is, he’s been worried about it.”
“Please don’t involve Ben.”
“I didn’t. You did.”
He disconnected.
After the call, I went back upstairs.
Under Ben’s pillow, I found a torn sheet of notebook paper.
Three lines were written in his careful handwriting:
Dad – red door.
Mom – blue mailbox.
Grandma – four hours away.
It wasn’t just a list.
It was Ben trying to figure out where his family belonged now.
I folded the paper and placed it beside the key.
