Three Baby Cribs and a Missing Set of Car Keys
I picked up a yellow plastic shovel from the grass and dropped it into a heavy black garbage bag.
“The neighbors are already watching,” Shaun said, nodding toward the high cedar fence on the left.
Mrs. Gable, who lived next door and always kept her kitchen curtains parted by three inches, was standing near her patio door.
“Let her watch,” I said, though my throat felt dry as I reached for the plastic watering can shaped like an elephant.
“Do you want to leave the playhouse?” Shaun asked, pointing to the red plastic castle in the corner. “It is going to take up half the truck bed.”
“No,” I said, wiping a streak of dried mud from the plastic turret. “That was eighty-five dollars, and the babies will use it next summer.”
“We will make it fit,” Shaun said, lifting the plastic slide and tipping it to drain the rainwater that had collected in the bottom curve.
The water spilled onto the dry grass, leaving a dark, steaming patch that smelled of warm earth and plastic.
“Did you call the electric company?” Shaun asked, setting the slide down with a dull plastic thud.
