All day I had my doubts. Carried them in my hand like coins from a far country brought back and kept to be spent again when I returned there. They are the currency of nights measured in city blocks, lips parted in limosines, laughter behind doors in a language guttural and cold, a bottle rolling and spinning. The coins of doubt are warm to the touch in Faith's pocket. Faith limps along penniless, shoe-worn, and tired. It carries them, bright and smooth, lest it forget where it is going, where it has been.