I check my watch and sigh. Henry's bedtime came and went. I'm on my feet all day, and the scar below my navel feels like it's tearing me apart. Shuffling steps on the worn carpet make me look up.
A pale hand, veined like spiderwebs with bulging blue lines, drops silver coins on the counter. They look like relics, lost a century ago in a lake or fountain—perhaps by accident, perhaps for luck. I don't have much luck, and neither does the man before me, by the look of him.
"There is a fee for late checkout," I say.
"I found these on the bathroom floor." A rusty voice, carried on stale breath.
I point at the 'Card only' sign on the counter. "The total is 45 pounds, including the fee."
"I don't have a card."
"It's our policy."
"Could you make an exception?"
Fingers with yellow, cracked nails slide the silver coins towards me, polite, almost gentle.
"Are you kidding me?"
He looks at me, hoping for a positive response. I stare right back at him, hoping to finally get home.
"I am sure they are valuable." His voice breaks away.
"Not to me, they're not."
"They are the most valuable thing I have, miss."
I'm hungry and I'm weary, and my reserves of patience—worn thin since Henry's difficult birth—are running low.
But the guy looks starved and dog-weary too.
I sigh and slide the coins back across the counter. They're useless to me; I'd throw them back into the murky waters they came from. But maybe he'll find a fountain somewhere.
