The Backpack Drop Zone: One Sixth-Grade Truth That Exposed Our Quiet Crisis

bruised banana. Two granola bars in crinkly wrappers. A fistful of single-dollar bills held together with a rubber band. And a note, folded neatly like it had been ironed.

I stared at it, my keys still in my hand, my coat still on my shoulders, like I had walked into a room that belonged to someone else.

The note said:

FOR WHOEVER’S STOMACH HURTS. NO continue reading …