The Alabama sun hammered Tuscumbia flat. Dust ghosts danced on Railroad Street. Daniel sat on splintered steps. His porch. Mostly. The wood groaned. Like his belly.

In his pocket. The bill. The last bill. One hundred dollars. Green. Deep, forest-floor green. Not bright. Old money green. Crisp paper, sharp corners. Felt important. Heavy in the hand. Ben Franklin stared out. Wise eyes. Knowing eyes. A little sad? His face, sharp black ink. Serious. Below him, a quill. An inkwell. Symbols of thought. 

Of signing things. Big, fat "100" in each corner. Screaming its value. Right edge, a stripe. Blue. Shimmering blue. Like a deep secret. Tilted it. Watched magic. The bell in the inkwell. Copper? Gold? Changed. Green-gold-green. Alive. Faint background lines. Swirls. Like fancy prison bars. Holding the value in. Holding you in. Felt smooth. 

Felt powerful. A silent shout in Daniel's pocket. A promise thick as cream. Buying anything. Made him someone. Escape. That’s the charm. Cold. Hard. Utterly seductive. A whisper of power on cheap cotton paper.

Daniel Washington. High school? A memory faded like paint on clapboard. Cherokee blood from his grandfather. Tough, silent river rock. Grandmother, pale as buttermilk, gone now. Mother, dark earth and tired eyes, resting under a wilting cedar. Him. Just him now.

Months. Scraping. Tin-can jobs vanished like smoke. Now, nothing. The hundred felt heavy. Alive. A small animal nestling against his thigh. His everything. Food. Maybe rent. Maybe. No guarantee. No promise of another dime. Ever.

Hunger. A sharp-toothed animal inside. Gnawing. His hands shook. Not fear. Need. Appalling need. He stood. Dust puffed around worn boots. Walked. 

Past sagging houses. Past windows boarded like blind eyes. Past the smell of damp rot and despair. A poor place. Forgotten. Scarcity was the air you breathed. Dearth was the only abundance.

The diner. ‘Joe’s Eats.’ Flickering neon. Inside, grease-thick air. Sticky counter. A fly buzzed against clouded glass.

"Breakfast," Daniel rasped. Voice like gravel. "Coffee. Black. Biscuit. Sausage patty."

The counterman, grease on apron, eyed him. Saw the worn clothes. The hollows under his eyes. Nodded. Slid a chipped plate. One pale biscuit. One greasy puck of meat. Mug of bitter black.

Daniel ate. Slow. Each bite a ceremony. A betrayal. He tasted the biscuit’s floury dryness. The sausage’s salty fat. The coffee’s harsh burn. Life. For a moment. The animal inside quieted.

Time to pay. His fingers found the bill. Pulled it out. Crisp. Green. Treason. He laid it on the counter. Smoothing the crumple Grandfather might have called pride.

The counterman stared. Like Daniel handed him a snake. "Hunnert? Man… ain’t got change for that here. Not this early. Not ever, much." He eyed the bill like it was poison. "Gotta break it?"

Daniel nodded. Felt the world shrink. Felt the weight of the bill lessen. Felt its power bleed away onto the greasy Formica. "Break it."

The man grunted. Went away. Came back. Peeling bills. Fives. Ones. Coins. Counted slow. Loud. Seventy-eight dollars. Thirty-four cents. Daniel’s life, reduced. He took the money. Paper felt thin. Worthless. Except the five he folded small. Hidden deep. Saved. His last shield.

Daniel recalled the perilous journey of his hundred dollars bill. He pondered how his knuckle scraped deep denim. Found the tight-folded rectangle. Hooked it. Pulled with a dry rasp, like tearing skin. Out into greasy light. The bill crackled, unfurling arrogant green against counter grime. Franklin stared pale, accusing. 

The blue stripe shimmered, a sickly jewel. Daniel smoothed it once, desperate, trembling fingers on stiff, protesting paper—his last fortress wall. 

He salvaged on how he laid it flat on stained Formica. Surrender. Bright green screamed against brown rot. A hope-flag dropped in mud. The counterman's greasy paw slammed down, snuffing its light. A brutal swipe. Gone. Into the register's dark maw. A muffled "chunk". Like a cell door closing. Vanished. Swallowed. Dead money.

Stepped back into the hammer sun. Lighter wallet. Heavier heart. The hundred was gone. Spent on grease and grits. His everything, for breakfast. No job waited. No promise. Just the Tuscumbia heat. The dust. The empty ache returning already.

He touched the hidden five. Small. Hard. Like a river stone. Like hope. Maybe. Just maybe. Enough for tomorrow’s biscuit. He walked. 

Towards the sagging porch. Towards nothing. But breathing. Still breathing. Sun on his neck. Cherokee, English, African blood running thin. But running. Alive. In the appalling, beautiful, broken South.