A Sign

He takes the car down the road to the dilapidated cinder block car wash, where most of the features no longer work. Take the change, for example – please! – he laughs to himself, because his first quarter rolls right through the coin slot and machine, and out the other end, clinking on the wet and broken cement pad. He finds a penny when he picks up the quarter.

That car washed, he returns with the other vehicle. He takes it to a different stall, where – deja vu! – the same thing happens with the quarter, and he finds another penny.

Two cars, two stalls, two quarters, two pennies. He cups the pennies in his hand and shakes them.

It must be a sign.