I froze.
It was more money than I’d had in my account in years.
For a moment, I imagined what it could do for us.
Rent was due in three days. The electric bill was overdue. My daughter needed new shoes—hers were worn through.
This money could fix everything… at least for a while.
Then I saw the ID.
An older man—late 70s. Thin gray hair. Tired eyes. His name was Gary.
Inside was also a folded note with an address and telephone number.
I closed the wallet, my hands shaking.
What was I supposed to do?
I locked it in my toolbox and finished closing the shop, my heart pounding like I’d done something wrong just by finding it.
The drive home was silent.
My mom was cooking spaghetti, and the kids were doing homework when I walked in.
“Daddy!” my daughter shouted, running to hug me.
“Hey, sweetheart.”
My mom studied me. “You okay? You look pale.”
“Just a long day.”
After dinner, I tucked the kids into bed, but I couldn’t stop thinking about that wallet.
Finally, I made a decision.
“I need to run an errand,” I told my mom.
“This late?”
“I won’t be long.”
She nodded. “Be careful.”
I grabbed the wallet and drove to the address.
It was a small house on the outskirts of town. The porch light was on, and the TV flickered inside.
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