Four quarters. Cool and round, nestled in the damp palm of Obie Serveria. She looks at the claw machine. A strand of pink light travels the hard edges of its cube, three-dimensionally framing the pile of stuffed bears and tacos and candy canes, jumbled and chaotic like leaves pushed into a corner by dancing whips of wind. The quarters fall to where they always were, triggering the music of opportunity: push the joystick north to begin the hunt, play to win, play to win, play to win. Obie does as she has and as she will; the four-taloned hand glides away from her, then to her right. It rests. The pink lights pulse, silence plays like just another song, her hand cools in the air-wake of a child racing past, the scent of baked pretzels oozes past, bringing a salty memory to her tongue. She presses the red button. It becomes not-up, the claw grasps what it always held. A memory of victory and loss is known, comfort comes and goes in the shape of a stuffed bear between hands and gone again.
Then there will be no here nor there nor in-between.