This one doesn't hurt to touch, so John takes it readily. He smooths the pads of his fingers over the worn-away face of the thing, fidgets his blunt thumbnail against its edge.

"This might be less my wheelhouse than cow bones," he says, slowly. "It feels like a grave. The bones are like beacons, they catch your eye. But everything here is lit by the same glow... it's all one big soup of death."

He flips the coin and catches it. Without remorse, he adds:

"And I can't make heads or tails of it."