On top of a cabinet in the church's community room were eight piggy banks the children made themselves, all turned so they could look out the window. They were supposed to be piggy banks: one looked more like a giraffe, another like a poodle. The five- and six-year-olds carefully molded the clay. The teacher cut holes on the bottom that would fit the little stoppers bought at K-Mart. The next week the children painted them. Each Sunday, when they came to church with their parents, they deposited what coins they could, saving to help a church three towns over destroyed by fire. Some of it was money they'd been given for candy or ice cream. Then one morning the pastor finds shards of the banks strewn across the floor. He spots a dime as he's cleaning up. One bank, a blue piggy with bright green eyes, the thieves must have taken with them. It was the nicest pig Jake had ever made. His mother offers a ceramic pink piggy bank from her parents' attic, given to her when she was nine or ten. But Jake wouldn't be caught dead with a pink bank, and he doesn't like the stupid way its ears stick out.