A crumpled one-dollar bill mid-transfer — a child's fingers releasing it into a cashier's palm, birt

A crumpled one-dollar bill mid-transfer — a child's fingers releasing it into a cashier's palm, birthday card on the counter, camera already low and moving, locked on the bill from frame one. Launches immediately. Bill pressed into a scarred hand in a dark alley, single fluorescent overhead, no eye contact, folds into a jacket pocket. Surfaces in a velvet collection basket sliding down a Sunday pew, amber stained glass from the left. Tucked by painted fingernails into a dancer's waistband, deep red stage light, bass vibrating the floor. Dropped into a wax paper cup on a grey sidewalk, homeless man folds it carefully into his chest pocket like it matters. Fed into a vending machine in a yellowed bus station — machine spits it back, he smooths it flat, feeds it again, it takes, change clatters, one coin rolls slow across tile and stops against a small sneaker. Camera tilts up. Different child. Different city. Birthday balloons behind her. She closes her fist around the coin. Camera pulls back through the window glass. Holds. Fade. Continuous ground-level shot throughout, never cuts, full speed except the rolling coin and final tilt which are both slow motion. No music, ambient sound only, vending machine rejection is the loudest moment in the piece.