Ira Cummings was a man with no future. He had only the present, which recycled itself with tedious regularity: same morning routine, same bland breakfast, same maintenance man job in a rundown factory. His only joy was eating his bologna-sandwich lunch on the roof.
One day as he ate, a white canvas bag fell from the sky, venting $100 bills. The bag of money landed within arm’s reach. Ira stared at it, but such was his myopia that he couldn’t make sense of it. What would he do with a bag of money?
He finished lunch early and left.
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