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in there.”
    Thirty divided by four equals seven dollars and fifty cents. Tewolde and I grinned at each other — this could double our annual budget!
    Each time we went to Triangle Park, we shook our giant piggy bank just a little more. Each time, we heard our money jingle a little louder.
    One day Big Bo became impatient and bull-rushed the meter, knocking it flat on its feet.
    Pedestrians and cars passed by, commuters coming home after a long day’s work in the city. If they saw four brothers standing next to the fallen meter, they would suspect something. If they saw four brothers carrying it down the street, they would call the police.
    But we refused to leave our parking meter. We had worked too hard for it. And we wanted our $7.50.
    We picked it up. One parking meter, four teenage guys — no problem, we figured.
    But the city had weighed down the bottom of the meter with more than one hundred pounds of cement, making it almost impossible to balance.
    We didn’t care. It could have been three hundred pounds. Nothing was going to keep us from our money.
    We dragged our prize to the secret tunnel next to the railroad tracks. Tewolde and I had discovered the tunnel long ago, when we were out hunting with our Cambodian brother. Slinging homemade bows and arrows, we had patrolled the trees that border the tracks, looking for rabbits and squirrels. One time, we hit a rabbit and it led us to the tunnel.
    The tunnel was a great underground hideaway. Usually, though, we avoided it because overgrown plants guarded the entrance and darkness reigned inside. Besides, the tunnel was only three feet high.
    We crept in slowly, waiting for our eyes to adjust to the dark. We kept dragging the meter until we were sure that no one could see it from the outside.
    Then we encountered our first major problem: We had no way to get the money out. The meter’s money pouch had no screws near it. I guess the city had prepared for punks like us.
    We returned the next morning with hammers, screwdrivers, and nails, vowing to find a way into the money pouch. We saw metal tent pegs lying next to the tracks; they would help us pop open the meter head.
    One hour elapsed, and still we labored. To keep our spirits up, we shook the meter head and listened to the clang of our quarters. Laughing, we considered ourselves the boldest adventurers. Who could stop us?
    At some point, I heard a noise. But I thought it was one of the others. As the static of the walkie-talkie grew louder, though, I knew. I knew even before I saw the flashlight and the metal star and the white policeman’s unbelieving face gazing in at us. I saw felony at age eleven flash before my eyes, and I saw it mirrored in my brother’s eyes, too.
    Even worse, we both thought of my father and a story he always told us:
    M Y CHILDREN. T HERE WAS A POOR WIDOW WHO LIVED IN THE COUNTRYSIDE. S HE HAD NEITHER LIVESTOCK NOR GARDEN AND LIVED EACH DAY WITHOUT KNOWING HOW SHE WOULD EAT THE NEXT DAY. S HE HAD ONLY ONE THING IN THE WORLD, HER YOUNG SON.
    O NE DAY THE WIDOW’S SON, WHO HAD GROWN OLD ENOUGH TO PLAY OUTSIDE WITH HIS FRIENDS, BROUGHT HOME AN EGG. A TINY EGGSMALL, LIKE THE DUST. T HE WIDOW DID NOT ASK WHERE THE TINY EGG HAD COME FROM. S HE BOILED IT AND THEY ATE IT TOGETHER.
    T HE NEXT DAY THE SON BROUGHT A BIGGER EGG. S OON AFTER, TWO EGGS. T HEN TEN EGGS. F INALLY, HE BROUGHT THE WHOLE CHICKEN. T HE WIDOW STILL SAID NOTHING. S HE KEPT COOKING THE FOOD AND FEEDING HERSELF AND HER SON.
    M ANY CHICKENS, GOATS, AND SHEEP LATER, THE SON FINALLY HIT THE JACKPOT: H E BROUGHT HOME A WHOLE COW. H IS MOTHER SAID NOTHING, AND THEY MILKED THE COW AND DRANK THE MILK TOGETHER.
    A S THEY SAT FINISHING THE MILK, THE MAGISTRATE CAME WITH THE POLICE AND ARRESTED THE SON FOR STEALING THE COW. D ECLARING THAT THE SON WOULD HAVE TO DIE FOR HIS CRIME, THE MAGISTRATE ORDERED THE POLICE TO TAKE HIM TO THE HOUSE OF IMPRISONMENT.
    T HE DISTRAUGHT WIDOW HUMBLED HERSELF AND THREW HERSELF AT THE MAGISTRATE’S