It was a Tuesday. In July. After a routine appointment with my cardiologist in Phoenix. My blood pressure was fine. My heart was fine. The doctor said I’d probably live to be ninety.
I drove back to Scottsdale on the 51. I needed gas. I stopped at a Circle K on Shea Boulevard.
Ezoic
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.
No había comprado uno desde que murió.
Ezoic
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.
