I found the lottery ticket in my coat pocket, the one I bought at the gas station three months ago.
We always played the same numbers — her birthday, our anniversary, the year we bought the house.
I checked online. Two numbers off. Two numbers from a million.
Next to the ticket was a motel notepad with a phone number I scribbled during a work trip last spring. I never called it.
I thought about the pharmacist who refills my sleep meds without me asking. She knows my name, my insurance, my schedule.
The tall building downtown has a red light on top that blinks all night. I can see it from my kitchen window.
At the hatchery I count fish all day. Fry, fingerlings, adults. Ten thousand at a time. I never miss a count.
But I missed those two numbers. Two numbers that would have changed everything.
I folded the ticket and put it back in my coat. Some things you keep just to remember how close you got.