She held her closed hand in front of her. “I found it in the garden.” Her smile from this morning was gone. She opened her hand.
The thing was smaller than I remembered. She had cleaned it, but it wasn’t shiny.
My lungs were empty of air. “How did you know where to dig?”
“No one needs that many tomato plants.” She didn’t blink.
Down on the sidewalk a little boy rode his skateboard. His dog ran beside him.
“Are you going to–” I started to say and couldn’t finish. She was nodding her head yes, slow and final. I took a step backward. She picked up her phone.
The screen door banged shut behind me. Three tiny beeps from her phone. I sprinted past the little boy and his dog, and down to the creek. The water was cool on my ankles. A police siren sounded somewhere distant.