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.

There were more underneath. A stack of them, three inches thick, held together with a rubber band that had gone brittle.

Under the photographs was a brown envelope, and under that was a second envelope, thicker, and I could see the edge of a bill through a tear in the corner.

I did what I think most parents would do, which is that I closed the lid, took my child by the arm, walked him into the house, locked the door, and called 911 with my hands shaking so badly I had to try the last digit twice.

Officer Kell got there in eleven minutes.

I want to say plainly that she was excellent. She did not tell me to calm down. She looked at the photograph on top for about three seconds, said, "Okay," and got on her radio, and then she asked me to keep Milo inside and away from the window.