The beggar is curled up in the doorway, a paper cup containing a few coins nearby. In a moment of empathy I fumble in my pocket for a coin, grasping the milled edges.

"What do you want?" The coin's voice is bright and shiny in my head.

"I'm going to pass you on."

"What? To him? You can't?"

"Why not?"

"Feel me." The coin is cold and solid. "Look at me." I hold it up, seeing its brassy glint  in the sun. "Love me!" I close my fist around it, jealous and protective. And then -

I drop the coin in the cup, my conscience clear.