The coin flipped end over end, catching the fluorescent lights of the bus station ceiling. Old Man Humphry snatched it mid-air, his knuckles thick and scarred like tree roots. "Heads," he declared, squinting at the worn profile. "Means the catheads are fresh today." He dropped the coin into the donation box beside the dented yogurt machine. The box rattled, swallowing the offering whole. Humphry didn't need luck; he knew Mrs. Gable baked her sourdough rolls every Tuesday without fail.

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