Every morning, my neighbor Evelyn dragged three, four, sometimes five enormous trash bags to the curb of our quiet Oak Park street. One day, I finally looked inside. I really wish I hadn’t.

“Most charities won’t accept food once it’s been inside a private residence.”

That wasn’t true at all.

I knew for a fact it wasn’t. Our local Oak Park food pantry accepted unopened food donations all the time.

Evelyn quickly excused herself.

“I really should get back to him.”

The front door clicked closed.

Sarah stepped out onto our front porch after Evelyn went back inside.

“She lied.”

“I know.”

“Now what do we do?”

I didn’t answer her.

Because at that exact moment, I heard something faint drifting across the quiet suburban evening.

Three slow, heavy knocks.

Coming from inside Evelyn’s garage.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

Then dead silence.

I walked closer to the edge of my front yard.