I finally made it in a roll. Inequality meant fifty of my kind were traded for two of theirs. I stayed in solitary confinement for thirty years. If Sartre thinks hell is a room with two others, what would he think of fifty in a cylinder?
A young man traded me and the others to look for geriatrics. I guess hearing JFK wasn’t rare enough. He forgot about me, but the keys on the desk helped me into his pocket. We went to Finland. I didn’t know until I got there.
My copper chilled. The cold froze the oxidation of Abe’s face, his beard green. Transformed me from the zinc out. He climbed somewhere to some name of some mountain with runic letters and dropped me there, for good luck. He dropped me there to freeze in the Finnish snow for eternity, a long way from 64.