Chapter 1: The Intriguing Life of Currency

Imagine receiving a stack of crisp hundred-dollar bills. It’s exhilarating to have such wealth in your grasp, and your mind races with thoughts of how to spend it or how much it will enhance your bank balance. You meticulously count the bills, admiring the face of Benjamin Franklin as you hold them up to your nose, inhaling the familiar scent of cotton, ink, and metal before safely tucking them away. While you may be preoccupied with dreams of indulgence, what you might overlook is the surprising amount of grime these bills carry.

Currency is surprisingly dirty. Once you discover what it harbors on its surface, you might think twice before handling cash again.

New bills are produced at the Bureau of Engraving and Printing, a part of the Department of the Treasury. Unlike standard paper, which consists of wood pulp, currency is crafted from a unique mixture of 25% linen and 75% cotton, embedded with red and blue fibers to deter counterfeiting. Each sheet is printed using various inks—green on the back, black on the front, and specialized inks for other sections based on denomination. Once printed, the sheets are cut into individual bills, and stacks of 4,000 bills are shrink-wrapped for delivery to Federal Reserve banks. In total, the facilities in Washington, DC, and Fort Worth, TX, produce an impressive 38 million bills daily, each destined for its own unique journey.

Let’s trace the journey of a one-dollar bill, affectionately named George.

George awakens one day, lying among a pile of bills in a cash register. It’s dim and cramped, yet he feels a sense of excitement. Suddenly, his compartment shifts forward, revealing a blinding light. A hand lifts him and passes him to another, larger hand, which has the scent of oranges and coffee. He takes a deep breath, catching glimpses of marble and steel, and before long, he finds himself crammed into a wallet with other bills. Darkness envelops him once more.

Though visibility is limited, he can feel the jagged edges of the other bills. One bears a taped-up tear, while another is thin and worn. They all seem grumpy, and the surrounding scents are a mix of leather and something else he can't quite identify—perhaps soap or musk?

His time in the wallet is short-lived. Moments later, he is yanked out and thrown into a tin can. The sounds of a bustling city surround him, accompanied by the acrid smell of car exhaust mixed with marijuana. A hard object jabs into his back, while the sun beats down mercilessly.

After what feels like an eternity—though it’s only 7 hours—a hand reaches into the can and crumples him along with other bills into a ball. The smell is unbearable, reminiscent of something disturbingly human. He instinctively blocks his nose, gasping for air through his mouth, only to be overwhelmed by a taste he would rather forget.

Just as he thinks he might lose consciousness, he is exchanged for a small plastic bag and shoved into another pocket. After stretching, he tumbles onto the street.

The night is long and cold, and although the concrete is hard, he relishes the fresh air. Exhausted, he drifts off to sleep, barely noticing the shoes that step on him or the gentle breeze that nudges him towards a flowerbed, where he finds himself nestled next to a yellow tulip.

George dreams of hot showers, the memory so vivid that he struggles to comprehend the furry underside of a dog hovering over him. Drenched in ammonia, he sinks back into slumber, longing for the comfort of the cash register. Days turn into weeks, and he endures visits from dogs, rats pretending to be interested, and a swarm of flies that seem to find his odor appealing.

His luck takes a turn when a city worker spots him while planting flowers. Noticing George, face up and grimy, she carefully picks him up and places him in her pocket. When she arrives home, she unfolds a fragrant scarf and lays him atop other rescued bills. George cherishes this period as the best time of his life.

However, everything changes on a Sunday when he and the other bills are tossed into a purse and taken on a lengthy journey. They pass through an airport, undergo security checks, and cross multiple time zones before arriving at a new destination. The air feels cleaner, infused with the scent of the ocean.

Once settled, George and his companions are stacked and secured with rubber bands. Piles of cash stretch across the bed like a miniature cityscape, but an ominous feeling creeps in.

Before he knows it, their stacks are thrown into a duffle bag and tossed into a car's trunk. They sit in oppressive silence for a long time until gunshots erupt. The trunk swings open, and someone seizes the bag, fleeing only to be struck by a bullet. George feels the warm splatter of blood, followed by the rush of night air as another person grabs him and speeds off on a motorcycle.

Soon after, he is pulled out, rolled into a tube, and dragged across a plate of white powder. His world spins; sensations blend in a surreal mix of slow-motion and fast-forward. When clarity returns, he finds himself passed from one hand to another until he finally falls to the