“Sorry, kid. I can’t be bought.”
The child didn’t listen as they grabbed the piggy bank off of their dresser. They struggled with the cap until it finally gave way with a satisfying POP.
“Name your price,” they said. Their eyes were narrowed, calculating. Clearly the child of lawyers.
“Your money means nothing to me.”
Their stare persisted.
I sighed. “100 million dollars.”
“Here.” The child stepped forward, fist extended. I uncurled my claws to receive crumpled bills and coins. “You’ll get the rest later.”
I slithered back under the bed and the child, my child, crawled back under their covers.