He stopped sleeping properly. My mother told me he was up at two, three in the morning, sitting on the stairs.
I thought: he’s grieving. He’s eight and he lost his sister and he’s grieving in his own way.
That is what I thought for two and a half weeks.
Around the twenty-eighth of May I noticed the jar.
It was on his dresser. An old pickle jar with the label soaked off, and there was money in it. Coins, mostly. A few crumpled ones. A five.
I noticed it and I thought, that’s sweet, he’s saving for something, and I went back to bed.
Three days later there was more in it. And then on the third of June — a Tuesday — I walked past his door at about four in the afternoon and he was standing at the dresser feeding a folded twenty-dollar bill through the slot he’d cut in the lid.
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