“Did you drop something, Mom?” he wanted to know.

“No,” I said.

“There’s something jammed way down under the lip of the concrete.”

Noah got down on his knees on the step and put his face down close to the crack.

He slid his skinny thumb and pointer finger into the narrow gap by the iron railing.

“Look, Mom, there’s one last clean one right under the doorstep,” Noah said.

He drew his hand back out, wiped his fingers on his jeans, and held his palm out to me.