by Dan Leonard

 

They found it on the sidewalk.
A quarter.

“Rock. Paper. Scissors!”

“My turn,” one said.
“In a piggy bank.”

“Your turn.”
“Under a pillow.
For the tooth fairy.”

“My turn.”
“In a magic show.
Behind your ear—”

“Your turn.”
“Got it.”

“My turn.”
“On a horse.
Up and down.”

“Your turn.”
“At the arcade.”

“My turn.”
“In one of those machines…”

They leaned in close.

“The claw comes down,” one said.

“Your turn.”
“I almost had it.
One more time.”

“My turn.”
“In a gumball machine.
You turn it—”

“Your turn.”
“—and something bright comes out.”

They held it up.
They turned it once.
Then twice.

“Quarter…”
“Do you go places…”
“or do you wait for us?”

“Maybe you’ve hid in a pocket.”
“Or under a pillow.”
“Or lost in a couch.”

“Maybe a machine swallowed you.”
“And then—spit you out.”

“Maybe you don’t stay anywhere.”
“Maybe you just keep going.”

They walked.

At the fountain, they stopped.
The look.

“On three.”

It slipped—
a quick laugh—
then stillness.

“…we were a quarter.”

They dropped it.
Plip—
gone.

Ripples spread.

They leaned over the edge—
watching—
waiting
for their turn.