chips separate then interlock in Morgan's dexterous fingers. Coupled, he
makes them move, one knuckle
to the next... then sets the pair on edge and tilts it against his palm,
contemplating one side, the other—white then black then white then black.
He closes his fist, he opens it—white. He closes his fist; he opens it—black. He closes his fist; he opens it—the chips have disappeared, a slight-of-hand so polished it impresses even himself... as he rides in a Greyhound bus, luggage stowed, the long miles passing.