Marco had had it once, and it had left him ruined. A quarter. But not just any quarter: this particular quarter had been nicked on the side, just off Washington's nose. Washington. That liar. He'd crawled across the river Styx on the Savior's Day to attack the Santos, the Holy Saints, and the United States had been godless ever since. And the mint mark was an X. Where was X? D was Denver, Delaware, Damned Washington...

Marco felt mighty fine. It was a bright, fresh day, and he'd eaten well today; the assorted scraps of fast food he'd hustled for this morning had lasted him a good, long time. Maybe later he'd try to earn enough for a razor. He tried to keep himself clean-shaven, for some reason that escaped him at the moment. But right now, he was digging through the dumpster behind the bank building, looking for the quarter and putting scraps of paper in his pockets. If he didn't spend at least a couple of hours every day looking for the quarter, he wouldn't feel restful all night. The paper was just a side job. One of the security guards, Nicky-who-looked-familiar, would give him a dime for every time he found a piece of paper with a social security number on it. Started out being good money, but not so much anymore. Marco guessed Nicky was tracking down the people who threw out important paperwork and chewed them out.

Some guy in fairly clean pants came walking out of the alley. Marco jumped like the Devil had pinched him: he hadn't seen the man walk into the alley, and there was no other way out. Looked...dangerous. But just on the off-chance, Marco reached out one hand and asked the Question. "Buddy, you got a quarter?" Christ, Marco thought. Once upon a time I had rich brown hair, the kind that old men envy and young man long to touch. Once upon a time, I had a chiseled jaw with a dimpled chin and a twinkle in my eye, and this man would have smiled at me as we passed each other. And now. Now I need a bath. I'm so inky I could pass for Al Jolson.

Marco almost broke into some song about a red, red robin when suddenly the guy grimaced at him.

"Here, use this to get some soap." Like he was giving Marco an insult instead of a quarter, instead of Marco's own personal million-dollar lottery ticket.

Marco checked the quarter. No nick across from the nose. Mint mark O. He stuffed it into a pocket--where his wallet would have rested had he been wearing a suit coat--and said, "Like I could buy soap for a quarter."

The guy called back over his shoulder, "Cry me a fuckin' river, pal."

Marco leaned back into the dumpster. Fifteen more minutes, he promised the crazy inside his head. When the churchbells start to ring, then you can start walking down Prospect to the shelter. You won't have to stay the night. Just long enough to get a bath. Then you can start looking again...

Fifteen minutes later, the cramps started. Marco dropped to his knees and heaved up everything left in his stomach: a few brown lumps, but nothing spectaular. He leaned back and waited for his stomach to stop trying to pierce through his diaphragm. Eventually, he was able to stand up and start struggling toward the alley entrance. Damn shelter? was going to have him tonight. You ignore a gut problem out on the streets, you could easily shit yourself to death. Dehydration. People see you begging for water and think all you want is Old Crow. Or they don't see you at all. Feeling vaguely like he was paying for a previous life's sins (especially vanity), Marco shuffled down the sidewalk, travelling sometimes in an invisible forcefield of don't-touch-me-and-I-won't-put-stinky-on-you and sometimes being slammed down by a deliberate elbow. He held onto the wall when he could.

He was just outside another alleyway when the cramps hit again, this time worse than before. He made it to the other side of a nearby dumpster (reeking of bad restaurant slopwater) before he collapsed. Shivering and shaking, he lay on the sidewalk and waited. Ten more blocks. He was lucky to be so close...

Marco's face turned gray, and spittle ran off his straggly beard in foamy clumps. His head spasmed hard, hard enough to crack against the concrete with a sick, moist sound. Marco's clothes, old camoflage he'd got as a donation, a good pair of work boots, and a cracked leather belt, strained and swelled like a balloon. With a creaking noise, his belt burst, and then his clothing ripped. More than his clothes. His skin, his Marco skin split off and peeled and pilled away.

Underneath, steaming in the shaded autumn air, was someone else. James Ocram. His clothes, a cabled sweater and olive pants jacket, were dark and still slightly wet. James sat in the Marco's skin, stunned, but he wasn't struck by a reason. After a few minutes, he stood up and walked into the alleyway. He knew enough to know it was time to go home.

His apartment wasn't far away, so it didn't take long, just a few stops and a short walk. He and Andy had spoiled themselves with a view that overlooked most of the city. Salt Lake City, it wasn't. Andy used to wake him up every morning. "James! Guess what!" "What is it, Andy?" "I'm still not in Salt Lake City!" He was just like a little kid.

Sure enough, as James walked toward their building, Andy leaned out over the balcony and waved to him. "You're home!"

"Same time every day," James said. He brushed his brown hair away from his dark eyes, and Andy grinned at him. That was it. Andy loved to see him clean-shaven.

When James reached into his pocket to pull out his keys to the building, he found a quarter. The quarter. A nick across Martha Washington's nose. Mint mark "X" for Xanadu. He'd lost it once before. Or maybe he'd found it once before. He'd wondered last time, too. Marco-Ocram. Marco sounded like a name.

Ocram didn't.

By De Knippling?

• Flip
• Xanadu
• Any Port in a Storm?

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