Her shoes were wet.
She kept one hand under her coat over her stomach.
“She looked scared,” Eli said.
“So you gave her your umbrella.”
He nodded.
“I couldn't just leave her.”
I looked at him.
“You know you don't have to save everyone, right?”
“I know.”
“Good.”
He took a sip of cocoa.
Then he added quietly:
“But Dad would've given it to her.”
That sentence broke something inside me.
I looked away so he wouldn't see me cry.
“Yeah,” I whispered.
“He probably would have.”
We went to bed early.
I thought the worst thing that happened that day was that my son had lost an umbrella.
I was wrong.
The next morning, I opened the front door.
And I screamed.
Forty-Seven
My coffee slipped from my hand.
The mug hit the porch.
It shattered.
Hot coffee splashed across my bare feet.
I didn't feel it.
Because our entire lawn was covered in umbrellas.
Not three.
Not ten.
Not even twenty.
Forty-seven.
Forty-seven open umbrellas stood in perfectly straight rows across the wet grass.
Red.
Yellow.
Black.
Green.
Purple.
Polka-dotted.
Transparent.
Children's umbrellas.
Golf umbrellas.
Cheap folding umbrellas.
Expensive-looking ones.
Some were old and bent.
Others looked brand new.
And beneath every umbrella sat a small white box.
Each box had a number painted on it by hand.
All the way to 47.
My heart started pounding.
I stepped onto the porch.
“Eli!”
He came running.
He stopped behind me.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then he whispered:
“Oh no.”
Neighbors were gathering.
Mrs. Alvarez from across the street stood in her driveway holding her robe closed around her.
Mr. Jenkins from two houses down had his phone out.
Someone was filming.
Someone else was calling someone.