“Every one,” I said.

“And I need five hundred more paper sleeves to finish wrapping the rest by morning.”

Marge pulled a little steel tray out from under her cash drawer.

She dragged her fingernail around the rim of a penny poking out of the open end of the wrapper.

No black sludge came off on her skin.

“The counting machine in the back rejects anything with motor lube on it,” Marge said.

“It gums up the rubber gears and burns out the sorter motor.”