That pulled me fully awake.

Several neighbors had gathered near the sidewalk, many of them holding up their phones.

“Sarah!” I called. “Put the phone down! You know I don’t like Eli being filmed.”

She lowered it only halfway. “Carina, it’s beautiful! Didn’t you see Facebook?”

My stomach twisted. “What’s on Facebook?”

A man from two houses away called out, “Carina, Eli’s famous!”

My son shifted behind me.

I moved directly in front of him. “Everybody put your phones down. Now! He’s a child.”

A few faces flushed with embarrassment. Others lowered their phones slowly.

I stepped onto the damp grass, my robe dragging around my ankles. Eli kept close to my side.

The first umbrella was dark blue. A tag was tied to the box beneath it.

“For Eli.”

“Stay back, bud,” I told him.

“Mom, it has my name on it.”

“I know. But we don’t know who put it here. So I’m going to open it first.”

He gave a small nod.

I crouched and lifted the lid.

Then I screamed.

Inside sat a tight bundle wrapped in blue fabric.

For one terrible second, it looked foreign and frightening.

Then I spotted the wooden handle, the silver button, and Eli’s name written in my husband’s handwriting.

Eli dropped down beside me. “That’s Dad’s,” he whispered.

“It is.”

“How did it get here?”

He glanced at the boxes, then toward the neighbors. His face lost its color.

“Mom, we need to call someone. Maybe the police. This is scary.”

“I know. We’re not touching anything else until I know who did this.”

“Wait! There’s a note,” Eli said.

I looked again. A folded sheet of paper had been slipped beneath the umbrella strap.

“Read it,” he whispered.

My hands trembled as I unfolded it.

“Eli,