She didn’t know what to do. So, she did the unthinkable. She stuffed the shards of broken plastic into a cheap paper bag and stumbled out into her densely wooded backyard.
She needed a good spot, a place to bury the evidence. To most, it was just a silly plaything, but not to her juvenile spouse.
“It’s a collectible, vintage. It’s worth a fortune,” she remembered him saying.
She found a secluded place and clawed furiously at the damp soil. Time ticked away.
Then, a twig snapped.
She closed her eyes, knowing she’d been busted.
“Whattaya doin’?” her husband asked.
The Weekday One Hundred 