Checking the Drop

I walked past the front gate and hit the sidewalk, cutting two blocks east to the corner where the heavy blue newspaper box guards the curb. The base of that steel rig is prime real estate for loose hardware. I planted my boots on the cracked concrete, wedged the flat spine of my blade against the spring-loaded metal flap of the coin return, and shoved inward. The hinge groaned with a sharp metallic clatter, cracking open the dark pocket inside. A clean, forgotten silver dime was resting against the back corner, throwing a cold glint under the morning sun. Scooped the coin into my glove and pocketed the metal. On this block, you always check the drop.

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