Legal Tender

A bright burst of red curls bounced around the brick corner, followed by the squeak of miniature boots. Pip marched straight up to my wall, cupping both mittened hands like she was carrying state secrets. She halted below my chin, tilted her head back, and asked if angels ever lay eggs. Before I could fully process the theological implications, she opened her palms to reveal a fat, gleaming brown horse chestnut. I slid my dark sunglasses down a fraction and told her that in London, conkers are strictly street currency, not poultry. Thoroughly satisfied, she carefully wedged the polished nut into a cracked mortar seam right beneath my lowest painted stripe, patted the stone, and skipped away.