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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