My eight-year-old skipped lunch for six weeks to buy a red dress for the little girl across the street. The next morning our lawn was covered with fifty lunchboxes — and taped to the biggest one, a beat-up metal thing sitting alone in the middle of the grass, was a note that said OPEN THIS ONE FIRST.

OPEN THIS ONE FIRST.

He knelt down in the wet grass and undid the clasp.

And then he didn't move.

Four seconds. Five. My son knelt on our lawn with the lid open and did not move a muscle, and then he scrambled backward on his hands, and when he got to his feet he was shaking.

His face had gone completely white.

"Mom."

"What. Milo, what—"

"Call the police."

I got to it and looked in.

And then I understood exactly why he'd said it.

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PART 2 — THE TOP PHOTOGRAPH

Sitting face-up on top, filling the whole inside of the lid, was a photograph of my son.

Taken from behind and from a distance. Milo at the bus stop on the corner of Bellamy and Court, backpack on, one shoe untied. Winter coat, so it was months old. He had no idea it was being taken. You could tell from the framing that whoever took it was somewhere elevated and far away.