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I touched his shoulder. “You okay?”
“Dad said he’d teach me how to skate.”
“I remember.”
“I still want to go,” Eli said. “But not the big ramp.”
“Dad said he’d teach me how to skate.”
Box #6 held four dollars and thirty-eight cents from a seven-year-old named Maddie.
Eli stared at the coins. “Mom, we can’t keep this.”
“No,” I said. “So what do we do?”
He looked toward the Route 47 stop. “We share it.”
I followed his gaze to the bus shelter at the corner.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
Eli turned Maddie’s coins over in his palm. “If people brought all this because one person didn’t have an umbrella, maybe we make sure the next person does.”
“Mom, we can’t keep this.”
I looked at Jenelle. “You don’t get to write the ending alone this time.”
“No,” she said. “I don’t.”
Mr. Collins cleared his throat. “The depot has an old rack we could clean up. Nothing fancy, but sturdy.”
“The school has lost-and-found umbrellas,” Eli said. “And people could leave ponchos. Maybe bus cards too.”
***
“What would you call it?” I asked.
Eli looked at the number painted on Box #47.
“The Route 47 Rain Rack.”
Mr. Collins smiled. “That has a ring to it.”
“The Route 47 Rain Rack.”
Eli touched Darren’s umbrella gently. “Can the tag say, ‘Started with Darren’s umbrella’?”
My throat closed.
“Yes,” I said. “But this umbrella comes home with us.”
Eli nodded. “I know. Dad’s stays with us.”
Jenelle looked at me carefully. “May I write a follow-up? With your permission this time?”
“I have rules.”
She pulled out her notebook. “Tell me.”