The story of the Hobo Nickel:
A man tells his wife, “I’ll ride the rails and write when I find work.”
No word. Nothing for so long. She asks the wandering men by the train yard if they’ve seen him.
One says, “I’ll carve his face on this nickel and pass it along. Trust a hobo nickel to find its way.” Wrapped in a note with her only wish “Come home”, he left with it that night.
It passed around. In pockets. In hat brims. In tobacco tins. Seeking its reflection. Tarnishing in its despair. Finally dropped and left behind...
Nobody. Cold, walking nowhere. He enters a shed and lies down.
A scrap of paper. Opening, he finds the words, he finds the coin.
Now walking, coin in breast pocket warming him. Somebody going somewhere.