All is still. There is no movement. No light can be seen through the cracks of the door. The children have gone back to their homes. We look at the mountain of boxes that dwarfs the shack. We do not touch. We just look and marvel. Our children have told us about the monster that make people happy. Maybe it is the drink, but it seems that we can see them through the boxes, shimmering like fool’s gold. Not even the most habitual thieves among us lift a finger towards the boxes.
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