In the days since they put her into the dark, Rita’s had plenty of time to wonder whether the Cold Man’s life is worth it. When she couldn’t decide, she passed the hours exploring something new inside her: something that was once warm and scattered, now tightly aligned, a cold and perfect checkerboard.
Then they open the lid, and take the heavy dollars from her eyelids.
“You are of the Numismata,” says the flat voice. “You are of the Coined.”
Rita opens her eyes at the cold touch, and everything’s etched in silver. She’ll never be warm or see color again.