It started like any other night—I was too tired to cook, so I ordered dinner for my kids and me. When our regular delivery guy, Ravi, showed up, something felt off. He barely looked at me, quickly handed over the food, and rushed back to his car without a word. My son Kai noticed it too and asked, “What’s wrong with Ravi?” but I had no answer.
Then I spotted a strange note scribbled on the back of the delivery bag: “CHECK YOUR TRASH CAN.” My heart raced as I sent the kids to wash up and ran outside. The first trash can held nothing unusual, but the second was terrifying—a dirty blanket hid gloves, tools, and a bottle filled with a strange, unlabeled liquid. I felt chills run down my spine.
