He bought in at the bottom and wrote the twelve words on the nearest thing to hand, which was a takeout napkin, because he was going to copy them somewhere safe later. The coin went up four hundred percent. He told everyone. He did not copy them somewhere safe later.

The napkin went out with the Tuesday trash, the way napkins do. The wallet still shows the balance, live and to the cent, every time he opens the one laptop that remembers him. He checks it most nights. It is the most money he has ever had, and he will be able to look at it for the rest of his life.