My 6-year-old son emptied his piggy bank to help our elderly neighbor when her house went dark — but the next morning, our yard was covered with piggy banks, patrol cars blocked the street, and one officer handed me a red piggy bank with a war:ning: “Break this open.”

But when I opened the door, a police officer stood on my porch holding a red piggy bank.

Behind him, my yard was full of them.

Pink piggy banks. Blue piggy banks. Plastic ones. Ceramic ones. They covered the porch steps, lined the walkway, and spread across the grass like a strange little army.

At the end of the driveway, two patrol cars were parked sideways across the street, holding traffic back.

My six-year-old son, Oliver, appeared behind me in his race car pajamas and grabbed the side of my robe.

“Mom,” he whispered. “Did I do something wrong?”

I pulled him close.

“No, sweetheart.”

The officer looked down at him, and his expression softened.

“You’re Oliver?”