DAN WELLS Spare Change There he was, once again. Sitting on his bench, clothed in a knatty white dress shirt, collar curling like a dead leaf, dress pants cinched so tight they ballooned. He had a build for begging, emaciated limbs striking right angles, threatening to poke new holes in his clothing. He smiled at Paul, wished him a good morning. Paul scowled, locked the door behind him. Beggars were never good for business.