He’d kept it all through childhood, safely underneath his bed in the small chest of treasures.
Inside his battered, inappropriately floral, suitcase accompanying his teen-aged self between parents’ houses, it remained.
It had survived college, in his dorm-room, equipped with a door locking out unappealing parties.
But “She” had proven too dangerous. He sat, studying the appraiser’s face, awaiting the final figure, hoping for at least enough to cover the divorce from the wife who’d forced him to toss out so many things.
“It’s a shame. You’d have enough to retire off this - if only you’d kept the box.”