Potential

He assesses the scene. A scuffed black suitcase, the corners wet and peeling, weeds slithering up from the sidewalk to tickle its sides. The clasp is gold, cracked open, no number pad or keyhole, leaving the lid ajar. By peering once again through the considerable gap provided, he confirms it.

Money.

Little stacks of fifty-dollar bills.

His brain completes the calculations without his instruction. Quickly and thoughtlessly, like drinking water after walking in the heat. Bundles of twenty, five across, two back, two deep.

Twenty thousand dollars.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his notebook. Black and scuffed, like the suitcase, and identical to the others that sit side by side in his bedroom. This one is almost done, is almost ready to be pressed into place, slotted neatly onto the end of the bookshelf Father built for him.

He twiddles his pencil, crosses one thin arm across his chest, taps the rubber end against his shoulder. Explanations. He appraises the potentials as he always has, since he was a baby, Father says: logically. He cannot imagine another way to view the world, or, at least, he cannot think of a more efficient one.

Within eight minutes, the pencil’s nib is flat and scratchy, and the penultimate page of his notebook is a steady scrawl of grey.

Three potentials.

Number one: This money has been dropped accidentally. A person, in a rush, let the case slip out of their hand and did not realise.

Number two: This money has been left here for somebody. An exchange of goods is taking place, but the parties are unable to meet, so must leave their offerings where the other can find them.

Number three: This money is unwanted. It has been thrown away, as its owner no longer has use for it.

The most plausible, of course, is number three. He flips to the final page of his notebook and hesitates, his pencil hovering over the page. There may be more things to document between here and home; it would be wasteful to use so much space for this one event. He closes the notebook and slips it back into his pocket, wraps his arms around himself, taps the rubber of the pencil against his chest this time.

It is unlikely that someone dropped this money. He can imagine a lost scarf, a misplaced hat, but to unconsciously be removed from something as heavy as a suitcase is simply unrealistic. When he was at school, the other pupils would play tricks on him: sliding his lunchbox from his desk when his back was turned; slipping a book about reproductive biology into his bag as he walked out of the library. The alarm never sounded and he never lost his lunch; he always felt the sudden difference in weight, the shift in his delicate equilibrium. His classmates would call him a freak, but he didn’t know any other way to be. So no, the suitcase hadn’t been dropped.

As for the money being left here for somebody… this, too, is far-fetched. He thinks of when Father forgets his keys – something which happens with increased regularity, these days – and he has to leave them under the flower pot, or inside the watering can, or at the front desk of his office. Under no circumstances would he consider leaving the keys on the street, just outside the gate, where Father might find them, but someone else probably would first. Occasionally, when he has placed the keys under a large rock, or under the soil in the unkempt flowerbeds, Father accuses him of being too literal. He doesn’t see this as an insult, doesn’t believe there is such a thing. The world, after all, is a literal place. The earth does not turn in a metaphorical sense, in the way the posters at the library suggest it turns – "the planet spins for you, bringing forth a new start" – it turns literally. So many people seem to process the world as though their hearts are at its centre, but really, it just is. He taps his pencil three times against his chin. This money was not left; there is no transaction taking place.

Potential number three, then. The money was unwanted. If he digs deeper into this, which he already has done, he can see why it might not be the most obvious solution. “Money makes the world go round,” Father says most nights, when he’s boiling carrots and checking his receipts against the notes in his wallet. “You don’t say no to a dollar, no matter whose pocket it comes from.” Generally speaking, people do not throw their money away. He knows this, but generally isn’t good enough. Generally, people do not burn money either, but he can still smell the fireworks in the air from last night’s carnival. Generally, people do not buy things only to let them rot, but the dilapidated farm house to the north of town, and the brand-new three-piece suite on the sidewalk outside the Smith’s front porch, and the shiny VHS player in the dumpster behind the grocery store, suggest that occasionally, they do.

He is not so literal as to take his own words at face value and conclude that this money was simply tossed, however. If it were thrown away – which it was, he’s sure of it now – it is most likely because it was dangerous somehow. When he was younger, Father almost bought a car from a man down the street. The day the transaction was due to take place, the vehicle was found burnt out near the airport. It never belonged to the man down the street, and he hasn’t seen him since.

Too hot to handle.

He pulls his notebook out of his pocket again, flicks the corner of the leather three times. One page left.

The sun is going down, but not literally.

He finds the page he wrote on earlier, and circles possibility number three. Satisfaction warms his belly as the pencil slides across the paper.

Case closed.

He turns from the suitcase and makes his way back down the alleyway. This morning, there had been whispers of a dead raccoon up Tulip Street. One more page, one more case. And then home, to boiled carrots, a new notebook and another trip around the earth’s axis.