A hastily written message on my delivery bag sent me rushing to the backyard, revealing a chilling discovery that might have protected my family from a terrifying danger. The note from Ravi, our regular delivery guy, hinted at a lurking threat I couldn’t afford to ignore.
As a single mother, I often rely on food delivery when I’m too tired to cook for my children. Over time, Ravi became more than just a familiar face; he was like a friend, always exchanging high-fives with my kids, Kai and Isla, before heading off. But last Tuesday was different. Ravi seemed unusually tense, barely making eye contact as he handed me our food and hurried back to his car, leaving me bewildered.
“Mom, why is Ravi acting weird?” Kai asked, staring out the window as Ravi’s car disappeared.
“I’m not sure, sweetie. Maybe he’s just in a hurry,” I replied, still puzzled by his strange behavior.
I unpacked the food but noticed something scribbled on the back of the delivery bag. My curiosity piqued as I read the shaky handwriting, and suddenly, dinner was the last thing on my mind.
“CHECK YOUR TRASH CAN.”
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