Free Fair Coin by E. C. Myers

think of that. “Thanks, mister.” He approached the man, wrinkling his nose at the sour stench radiating from his grubby clothes.
    The man squinted at the quarter and rubbed his grimy fingers over it. “Hmmm.” He raised it up to the light and turned it this way and that, pinched between thumb and index finger. When he saw the reverse side with the picture of Puerto Rico, he went “Hmmm” again.
    Ephraim reached for the quarter. The man held it over Ephraim's open hand, poised to drop it. They locked eyes over the coin.
    “Here you go, kid.” The man finally lowered the quarter into his palm and pressed it there with a finger.
    Vertigo swept over Ephraim. His stomach felt like it was dropping away from him, and then he was fine.
    The man let his hand go and staggered away. He let out a loud belch. He seemed dizzy and started knocking his knuckles against the side of his head.
    Ephraim stepped back quickly in case the man threw up. He checked the coin in his hand. It was tails up.
    Suddenly they were illuminated by twin beams of light coming up the street. The man straightened. “Looks like another bus is here,” he said.
    Ephraim grinned with relief. There might not be a limit to the number of wishes he could make with the coin.
    The bus stopped, and Ephraim climbed on. He fed his two dollars into the bill slot and took a seat at the front. The homeless man stepped into the bus too, and the doors closed with a whoosh.
    “I don't have any money,” the man said.
    The bus driver sighed. “You can't keep doing this, old fella. This is a business, not a charity.”
    The homeless man turned to Ephraim. “I have to get home,” he said. “You brought me here.” His eyes were glassy and unfocused.
    Ephraim pocketed his quarter. “Sorry,” he said. “I don't have enough change.”
    “Change!” The homeless man chuckled to himself.
    “You know this guy?” the driver asked.
    “I don't know what he's talking about,” Ephraim said. “I only met him two minutes ago.”
    “It's a real shame when someone gets like this. Well, what the hell,” the driver said. “I'll take you anyway. I'm not losing any money over it and this is my last run of the night.”
    “This is the last bus?” Ephraim said.
    “Yup. I'm thirty minutes late—trouble with the doors earlier. But I always finish my route.” He shifted the bus into gear.
    “Looks like it's your lucky night after all,” the homeless man said as he shuffled past Ephraim's seat.
    Ephraim stared after him. The man remembered their conversation from before Ephraim's wish for the bus. Why? Up until now, no one but Ephraim had been aware of the changes. So what was different this time from all the previous times he'd used the coin? It was either the man or something Ephraim had done.
    He heard the unmistakable sound of the man vomiting in the back of the bus, and a moment later the acidic odor wafted toward him.
    “Swell.” The driver sighed. “That's what I get for being nice.”
    Ephraim turned and looked out the window as the bus moved down dark, empty streets. He kept his hand curled protectively around the coin in his pocket the whole time.

 
    Ephraim's mom wasn't home when he got back from the party. Instead of the lecture he'd expected for missing curfew, he found a note on the fridge telling him there were leftovers inside. It seemed she was back on the evening shift at the supermarket.
    It bothered him that his wishes were causing unpredictable changes that he hadn't asked for. At least this time it had worked in his favor; because she wasn't home, his mother would never even know he'd been out so late, and he'd avoid spending the first two weeks of summer grounded. With the coin, it would be easy enough to put things right for his mother again. Or better yet, he could wish her into a job she might actually enjoy, one that paid more than her meager wages.
    Ephraim hadn't eaten much at the party despite all his time near the snack table, so he nuked a