Doe flicked her cigarette into the fountain. It bobbed there, above the dull coins resting on the bottom.
“That’s bad luck,” someone said.
“Can’t get any worse than it already is,” she said over her shoulder. Hands grabbed at her, lifting and then dropping her into the fountain. She stood up, coughing, and glared at the man bent over in raucous laughter.
He moved in a little closer and held his hand out to her.
“There’s always something worse,” he said helping her over the fountain’s lip. A crowd had gathered, encircling them. They mumbled to themselves and moved on.