My six-year-old son donated all the money from his piggy bank to help our elderly neighbour after her house was left without power. I thought his kindness ended there, until the next morning, when our garden was filled with piggy banks, patrol cars, and a secret that the whole town had forgotten.
I opened my front door because someone kept knocking.
At first, I thought that Mrs. Adèle had finally come from the other side of the street. Maybe the power company had called back. Maybe his nephew, Elias, had arrived with an apology and a checkbook.
But when I opened the door, I found a policeman on the porch, a red piggy bank in his hand.
Behind him, my yard was overrun with pigs.
Roses. Blues. Ceramic dice. Plastic dice. They littered the steps of the porch, cluttered the alley and spread over the lawn.
My yard was overrun with pigs.
At the end of my driveway, two patrol cars were parked across the street, blocking traffic.
My six-year-old son, Oliver, appeared behind me, wearing racing car patterned pajamas.
