Chapter 2: The Broken Piggy Bank

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird as I drove to the school.

Every red light felt personal.

Every slow car felt cruel.

I kept thinking of Emma’s face that morning when I kissed her goodbye. Her braids were uneven because she had insisted on doing them herself, and she had smiled at me with the sleepy confidence of a child who still believed the world could be gentle.

Then I thought of the broken piggy bank I had found in her room the day before.

It had been lying on the floor beside her bed, cracked open, the painted pink ceramic split into three uneven pieces.

When I asked her about it, she looked down at her hands.

“I needed the money,” she whispered.

“For what?”

Her eyes lifted to mine.

Honest.

Soft.

Far too serious for a child.

“For Caleb.”

That was the first time I heard the new boy’s name spoken with heartbreak.

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