“Well,” he replied, his tone sharpening, “I’m not a charity. You want advice? Aim lower. People like you survive better that way.”
When the call ended, something inside me hardened—not into anger, but into clarity.
Three years later, on a night that felt no different from any other, I stopped at a gas station on my way home from work. I had twelve dollars to my name. Enough for gas or groceries, but not both. By the counter sat a rack of scratch-off tickets, bright and stupid and hopeful.
I don’t believe in signs, but something made me pull out a ten-dollar bill.
I scratched the ticket right there, leaning against the counter. The first box matched. The second box matched. The third.
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