He found them everywhere. On concrete, after they’d tinked and whirled circuitously. Gleaming dully amidst weeds and moldering detritus. Plucked from jars and dishes, under and around the blinking fog lights of nametagged suspicion.

He took them to his hovel, until he’d saved enough to escape this godforsaken place forever.

Kim Hawkins is lucky to be a stay-at-home father. He loves literature, writing, playing guitar and singing, and collecting nutcrackers. Also hats. Go Cubs.