The garage was insulated, but the floor was still ice cold under my knees. Coins, remembering decades from before my grandparents, were colder. I was shifting through a trail mix jar of change, looking for bus money. I grabbed a handful in my right hand, dumped it in my left, and plucked quarters and occasional dollar coins out, dropping the rest on the top of a box for an artificial tree.

     Quarter. Quarter. Canadian. Drop. Quarter. Nickel. Quarter. Quarter. Drop.

     Two dogs bore witness. I wouldn't even acknowledge them. I'd gone through this nearly-full jar before, taking out what I had considered "an unreasonable amount of quarters." Now I was taking all of them, digging through to the very bottom. "Unreasonable" had not been "enough."

     The patriotic metals were a mockery. "Liberty," when I had no place to live. "Justice," when all that contributed to my status as a have-not were unphased, unapologetic. "In God we trust" should have been oxidized with corruption.

     I unceremoniously sifted through the rejection pile as I swept it back into the jar. I found a coin or two I'd overlooked. Several coins fell to the concrete or the nearby bath rug, what might have been an alert if she had better hearing or swifter soles. I yanked the rug under my knees and the jar to muffle the clinks, just in case.

     The rug barely stifled the chill from the floor. Less than two months ago, I had slept in frozen fits one late fall morning. Fully clothed, scarf on my face to keep Jack Frost from seizing my lungs. A pathetic, shaking sight from after a disappointing ER visit.

     I dumped my find into my pants pocket and zipped it up, awkwardly returning the jar to the top of a pile of furniture.

     Heading back into the house, I carefully pinched the cloth so I wouldn't jingle. Back in the guest room, I put most of the coins in a zip bag, and then wrapped that in a pair of socks that didn't fit me right. I hefted it and shook it as a test; satisfied it would be quiet, I hid it in a compartment in my small burgundy suitcase.

     With blinds thrown up, door locked, useful belongings strewn about and sworn at and worn, and on warm, carpeted flooring, I went back to swallowing my fear to later spit pride.