It came apart like a newspaper in his hands. And I search silk pockets. Geometrical coins, coins without centers, coins with empty crosses for centers, milled, unmilled. They collect on the counter before him. With the side of his hand he slides them into a scoop and from there into a kind of plastic ant farm.
Numbers accumulate beneath a red needle.
Lights flicker and dim. Home at last. Absolutely, he says. Take this along with you, fill it out at your convenience. Drop it in any mailbox.