The wallet’s leather folds wink beneath the shuffle of feet on Tottenham Court Road. Tired feet, anxious feet, melancholy feet, sweaty feet tromp around it, step on it, oblivious. An ant hobbles across its surface, and Lewis is the one who bends down to pick it up and flip the wallet open. It’s filled with cash, so he quickly shoves it into his coat pocket. In the middle of a line of paused traffic, black-suited businessmen stare blankly out of the immaculately clean windows of a white sedan. A poodle on the sidewalk yelps as a leather boot accidentally trods on its paw. Seconds later, a tall, bald white man approaches us, asking Did you just find a wallet? I lost mine. The outline of a soft, rectangular object protudes through his shirt pocket, though, so we shake our heads no and run back home.