The guy was some expert in old coins. At least this was what the sign on his stall said. Something-ologist, something-apidrist. His fingers had hair all the way up them, sprouting from knuckles and wrinkles. He shot me with a crooked grin, clucked at a schoolgirl pawing through a bucket of pennies. The guy beckoned me over, pulled out a velvet-covered box from inside his jacket. He shooed away the schoolgirl, drew me in with his free hand. I shuffle closer, and the guy opened the box. Oh, I said, peering inside. So not coins, then. I tried to back away, but his grip remained on my arm. Definitely not coins.