The one-armed man stands looking into the glass, his reflection mocking him. The metal arm behind the glass descends into the mixture of bodily extremities.
'That one,' he thinks to himself staring at the flesh-colored skin. Much better than the furry one. Or the black one in the corner.
He maneuvers the machine, trying to secure it. But he comes up empty. The fingers on his lone arm tingle from grasping the handle so tightly.
The machine whirs to life again; he jerks the handle left. Then right. But it descends before he's ready and returns the blue one. That just wouldn't do.
More change. He tries again. And again. And yet again. Nothing.
Finally, on what seems to be his 20th try and after more money than he would have spent had he been able to find it, he nabs it.
Later, at home, he gives it to his daughter, the doll from the toy chest crane at the supermarket.
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