I walked back into the living room. Tommy was still standing by the window, his fingers hooking into the belt loops of his jeans, looking out at the dead leaves on the lawn.
“I am going to unpack your backpack, Tommy,” I said.
He did not turn around.
I carried the yellow bag to the kitchen table. It felt heavier than a second-grader’s bag should feel. I unzipped the main zipper, the metal teeth pulling apart with a loud rasp.
Inside was his green spelling folder, a box of raisins, and a light blue knit cap.
At the very bottom, tucked under his school notebook, was something large and solid.
I reached in and pulled out a heavy blue metal thermos. It was not the small plastic one with the red cap that I had bought him for his hot lunches. This was an industrial-grade steel bottle, scratched and dented near the rim, with a heavy black plastic stopper.
I turned it over in my hands. The base was made of brushed steel, and someone had used a pocketknife or a nail to scratch two rough letters into the blue paint.
