“Free lemonade!” the girl’s sign said, in messy handwriting. Under that, clearly added in by a parent after the fact, it said “or 25 cents”. You know, just as a suggestion.
I bought a cup. This in and of itself isn’t so strange; cute little kids could be selling smallpox cultures at their parents’ yardsales and I’d still feel obligated to fork over whatever loose change I had. What was strange was the folded-up piece of construction paper she handed me along with my drink.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“There’s something inside it,” she replied, like I was an idiot.
I took it back to my car (walking past a giant cardboard cutout of Homer Simpson that said “take a selfie!”; it was that kind of yardsale). Inside, I found:
Awwww. (I went back for more. Not every yardsale find has to be horrifying.)