the particular clink of coins against the loose threads of the couch fabric, that's what always catches me first. it's not the frantic scrape it used to be, not desperate, but a ghost memory of the numbers still pulses behind my eyes, a tiny, almost imperceptible tremor in my right hand. it’s a strange thing, this muscle memory of survival, feeling the weight of a quarter and remembering exactly what it used to mean, not what it means now.