It was supposed to be an ordinary evening. I was too tired to cook, so I ordered dinner for my kids and me like I had many times before. Our usual delivery driver, Ravi, showed up right on schedule—but something felt off the moment I opened the door. He didn’t smile, barely made eye contact, and quickly handed over the food before hurrying back to his car. My son, Kai, noticed it too. “What’s wrong with Ravi?” he asked. I didn’t have an answer.
Then I saw it—a note, hastily scribbled on the back of the delivery bag:
“CHECK YOUR TRASH CAN.”My heart skipped a beat. I told the kids to go wash up and bolted outside. The first bin was just garbage. But in the second, buried under a dirty blanket, I found something that chilled me to the bone: gloves, tools, and a plastic bottle filled with a strange, unlabeled liquid.