On the street, a woman gave me a child and a suitcase full of money, and sixteen years later I learned that he was the heir of a billionaire.

Misha devoured the porridge, smearing it over his chin. He was very hungry, but he tried to eat carefully, holding the spoon correctly. A polite boy.

“Let’s at least see what’s in the suitcase,” I nodded.

We sat Misha down in front of the TV and put on “Nu, pogodi!” The suitcase opened with a click.

I held my breath. Money. Piles and piles of bills, tied with security bands.
“My God,” Peter exhaled.

I grabbed a bundle at random. Five-thousand-ruble bills, one-hundred-ruble bills. I figured there were about thirty bundles, no less.

“Fifteen million,” I whispered.

“Peter, that’s a fortune.”

We looked at each other and at the laughing boy, watching the wolf chase the hare.

Nikolai, Peter’s old friend, found a way out. He came over a week later, and we drank tea and chatted.

“You can register him as an abandoned child,” he said, scratching his bald head. “Just like he was found on the doorstep. A friend of mine works in social services and will help you with the paperwork.