I went inside to pay.
There was a lottery machine by the register.
Harold used to buy one ticket a year. On my birthday. The Powerball. He said it was his present to me. A two-dollar chance at a different life.
He never won.
He always said, Maybe next year, Maggie.
I hadn’t bought one since he died.
I stood at the counter.
The young man behind it was maybe twenty. A name tag that said JOSÉ.
“Anything else, ma’am?”
I looked at the lottery machine.
“One Powerball,” I said. “Quick pick.”
He printed it.
I put it in my purse.
I forgot about it.
Two days later, I was folding laundry in the casita.
Caleb’s soccer shorts. Chloe’s swim towels. Renee’s scrubs.
I had the little TV on. The local news.
They read the Powerball numbers.
I wasn’t paying attention.
Then I heard a single winning ticket was sold at a Circle K on Shea Boulevard in Scottsdale.
