Ron reaches under the till and brings out a jar labelled ‘Tips’.

Its glass is as thick as a magnifying lens at its base, and lands with a heavy thud when he puts it down on the counter. The coins inside, arranged in groups of tidy layers, are slow to settle back from clinking against one another.

Dull coppers line the outer edge. A few bright foreign discs stand further in. Larger pieces make a metal bed at the bottom. Two pieces in the centre hold the light as nothing on this side of the river should manage.

The bell over The Frayed Spine door jingles as a family steps in.

A woman pushes in with a pram. Its foam handlebar is dented by the nylon handles of a shopping bag that hangs from it.

Her coat rustles every time a small boy, not older than six, keeps pulling at her tote while he is holding up a fistful of coins as if they were treasure.

Ron nods at the woman as she takes a children’s book off the counter stack.

The boy drags his feet alongside her as he looks around the bookshop. He winces at the shelves and turns. His eyes widen when he spots the tip jar. He stops pulling and shuffles closer to the counter instead.

He stretches on his toes, watching the coins in the jar with his mouth open. His head swings side to side. He takes in the range of reflections the layers of discs have to offer. He picks a copper from his fist and aims it at the jar as if it were a hoop. Elbow up. Ready to throw.

Ron catches the small wrist before the coin leaves his fingers.

“Placing a coin is always better than…” He takes the coin from his grasp. “…throwing.”

The boy looks up at him. His nose scrunches up and his brows misalign.

Ron puts the copper on the counter between two book stacks and lines it up with the paper price tags.

The woman lowers the book as her hand reaches for the boy’s shoulder.

“Coins mark crossings.” Ron gives a brief look at the woman before returning to the boy. “You should treat them with more respect.”

The boy watches the coin as if it might move any moment now. “What crossing?”

“Any of them.” Ron taps the coin. “Door to door. Here to there.” He offers the boy half a smile. “Pocket to jar. Every crossing asks to be meant.”

The boy considers this with a face creased in seriousness. “What if you don’t mean it?”

“Then the crossing knows.” Ron slides the copper closer to the boy’s hand. “A thrown coin is just a rock. A placed coin is a promise. No one wants to cross with rocks, boy.”

The boy glances at the woman and back at Ron through narrowed eyes. “A promise for what? I’m not going with you.”

“Of course not.” Ron offers him a wry grin. “The coin goes where you cannot. It stays in there to remind the crossing that you still have unfinished business on the sunny side of the– Here. It tells the fog to let you pass back home.”

The boy leans forward on his elbows. “Oh. So it’s like… a bookmark?”

“Exactly. It holds your place. Now, place it properly, and get back to the light before you catch a chill.”

The boy picks the coin up. His fingers are careful holding onto it. He turns it over, as if testing its weight, or reality, or if it just feels different now. He tilts closer to the jar. His tongue sticks out while he is stretching even higher until he is tottering on the very tips of his toes.

He lowers it in with both hands. His eyes follow the copper as it drops through the layers. It lands near the centre and gives a small, clear clinking sound. “It went quiet.” His nose comes close to touching the glass as he stares at the coins that wait there and do nothing in particular. “Did it know?”

“Yes.” Ron smiles. “It did.”

The boy seems satisfied with this. The woman who watches with one eyebrow raised suggests otherwise.

She mouths a distracted thank you over his head.

Ron inclines his chin.

The woman returns the book to the counter stack and steers the pram towards the door. The boy follows after her. He keeps looking back at the jar until they leave.

The bell jingles behind them.

Meg strides towards the counter with her boots thumping on the floorboards and ponytail swishing like it has got its own point to make. “She put the book back and you still got a tip.”

She fishes a coin from her pocket without breaking stride and sends it spinning towards the jar. “Well done.”

Ron’s hand flashes out. He plucks the coin from the air, a finger’s width before it hits the glass.

Meg stops.

“Don’t throw that.” Ron places the coin on the counter between them.

“It’s a tip.” Meg looks at the coin and folds her arms. “That’s exactly what the jar’s for, right?”

“Place it or don’t. No throwing.”

“You pulled it out of the air before it could go in anyway, Ron. I’d say you’re splitting hairs.”

“The intent carries from before the arrival.” His hand covers the coin. “You know this.”

Meg shifts her weight. She places a hand near the jar and swings her ponytail to let it hang over her shoulder. “It’s only a coin. And we’re not downstairs.”

“I do know what a coin is.” His brow wrinkles. “You don’t get to test me on things that certainly have never been your responsibility.”

He finds her palm and presses the coin into it. “Place it or keep it.”

She glances down at it and back at him. Her gaze holds the look until it turns into a stare before she eventually rolls her eyes. The thumb and index finger of both her hands pinch the coin. She lowers it into the jar with a pretentious ceremony.

“There. Happy now, Ferryman?” Her voice is low enough that only the till hears.

“For the moment.”

Meg sighs as she leans on the counter. She gives the staff room door a sidelong look.

“He’s still in there.” Ron opens the cash tray. “Eli.”

“I know.” She takes a bookmark from the counter and puts it back down.

“He’s been humming that thing again. The old ticket chime.”

“Yeah.” Meg’s eyes cut towards the rear exit. “And Maz went out the back.”

“I gathered.”

“And?” Her chin points at him. “You’re not going to do anything about it?”

“Anything? I’m doing several things.” He straightens the jar by a fraction. “None of them yours to audit.”

Meg’s mouth pulls to one side. “Well, someone’s still got to keep them distracted.”

“There’s always someone or something doing that.” He picks up the receipts. “Question is if ‘distracted’ is still the right word for it.”

Meg looks at him, lips pursed, as if waiting for him to carry on or change his words. “For the moment.”

She pushes off the counter, strides away and into the staff room.

Before the door swings shut behind her, the boy’s coin settles deeper in the jar with a softer clink.