The ripples along the surface of the shallow pool from her mother's coin nudged the severed limbs of a flower, the torso still held by the pig-tailed vivisectionist. She reminded him of the girl that Boris Karloff threw into a pond, a scene considered so shocking that it was cut from the original Frankenstein film. And yes, she reminded him of his own daughter.

He looked at the penny now warm between his fingers, his nostrils twitching in anticipation of the metallic scent now penetrating his skin. The portrait of Lincoln retained its detail, the copper its shine, but the rest of the world had faded. He stared again at the multitude of discarded change in the fountain, each piece traded by its previous owner for a dream, some possible no doubt, some absurd. His grip did not loosen. Instead, in a spasm of rage, he shoved the coin back into his pocket and hurried away.

This unexpected action drew the brief attention of nearby mall shoppers. They had other concerns and understandably failed to acknowledge the iron dictates of logic that he discovered, not so deep within the iridescent fountain waters. How could they see? If the thousands of dollars spent on expert care could not save her, he alone had been forced to admit, one small cent would never bring her back. Wish all his might.