Rosalyn awoke to the sound of pedestrian traffic.

She carefully waited as the people walked and chattered their way under the bridge. Once they had passed, she collapsed her makeshift, angled cot, unrolled herself from her sleeping bag, and rolled down from her crevice. She carefully watched for other streeters as she angled herself into an upright sliding position.

At the bottom, Rosalyn took inventory, checking to make sure nothing had been stolen while she'd slept. Finding none of her clothes or gear missing, she moved on towards next most important part of the day.

As far as beggars and hobos go, Rosalyn was quite lucky. The others weren't hobos by design, certainly not by choice. It would be a stretch to say that Rosalyn chose to be a streeter, she certainly didn't really like the idea or reality of beggardom, but she had found a more comfortable niche than most.

Every morning, Rosalyn went to the YMCA and took a shower. Her membership was good for the next six weeks, by which point she hoped to have begged enough money to afford another six months afterwards.

She would wash her street clothes in the shower, hang them to dry on her locker door, then swim for an hour or so until they would be mostly dry. After that, she'd zip up her swimsuit into a waterproof bag to dry later in the day. Her street clothes were trashy, so no-one would bother stealing them, and she kept a backup pair in her locker just in case.

Once Rosalyn finished her morning wash, she moved on to a cheap fast-food place, La-Quintas. They were her pick over any others simply because of location and pricing.

Once she arrived, she stealthily circled around back to where she hid her breakfast money stash. She collected about thirty dimes, leaving the stash half empty, and moved back towards the entrance.

She'd found a trick with hiding money. If you keep the money in small denominations and small amounts, and scattered around in different kinds of hiding places, even if somebody found it, they were unlikely to steal it. Well, except for other streeters. The tricky part was remembering where you hid the money, but Rosalyn remembered places well enough.

Ordering a small meal, all she needed for a quick breakfast, she ate it on the spot when they handed it to her and left.

She hummed as she walked towards her begging spot, hands in her hoodie, fiddling with her remaining change. She wouldn't hum if people were around, as people don't like donating to happy beggars, but there wasn't anyone around.

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"If wishes were fishes, and fishes were dimes, I'd wish for more fishes, and wishes, and dimes..."

The song was an old one, and rather childish, but earworms didn't have an expiration date. Her mother had hummed it sometimes while doing whatever daily chores there were to be done, and this habit had been passed down to Rosalyn.

As Rosalyn walked under a bridge, the sound of a semi-truck roaring overhead drowned out her humming, interrupting her earworm with instead a ringing noise. She groaned from the loud noise, and pressed her hands against her ears to try to block out the noise.

Rosalyn sped up as the noise got louder. Apparently, the trucks were out in force today, and more roars echoed out under the bridge as she broke out into a run.

Internally, Rosalyn wondered why her head hurt so much from the noise. She had walked under busy bridges before, and they weren't this loud. She got out from under the bridge, and looked up and to the right to look at the oncoming traffic over the bridge. As she did, she heard a tearing, screeching impact, followed by a splat noise to her left.

Fire bloomed, rising high into the air from the bridge. Two semi trucks, twisted nearly beyond recognition, crushed headlong into each other. On one of the white shells, she spotted a light dusting of red.

One of the semi truck's wagons had twisted round it, bashing through the rail above her. The rail tore apart the underside of the wagon, just enough for a small, thin object to fall on ground next to her.

She turned around all the way, looking up at the scene in disbelief. She watched as another one fell.

She turned to look at the slick pile that was starting to form.

A pile of motionless, oily fish.

Rosalyn wouldn't call herself a superstitious person, but...

"If wishes were fishes, and fishes were dimes..."

She slowly stepped towards the growing pile, and, bending over the pile to grab a fish from it with one hand, used the other to pull out her remaining dime.

She picked up the fish, fighting against its slippery texture, and whispered.

"I'd wish for more fishes, and wishes, and dimes."

Rosalyn's pockets swelled with a rush of clinking noises. She felt a strange sensation rush through her, and heard the distant knolling of a bell.

Her mind began racing. She slowly, jerkily reached into her pocket, and pulled out a handful of its contents. Dimes streamed down from between her fingers, and Rosalyn couldn't suppress a shudder. She couldn't have told what emotions she felt at that moment, but in her mind, she only thought about a freedom from poverty. A house, an oven, a wardrobe, a refrigerator, a microwave... Things she hadn't had since losing her home, family, and business.

Too overcome by hope and greed, she discarded the idea of coincidence, and wholeheartedly accepted the idea of superstitious tradition her gypsy ancestry had once touted.

Having now converted entirely to superstition, she opened her mouth to make a wish. "Should I choose riches, power, or fame?, Ah, who am I kidding, I can buy the other two with money." She smirked, thinking of all the idiot people who'd choose another option.

Before she could say anything, she was knocked unconscious by approximately sixty pounds of fish landing on her.