I found the ticket crumpled in my apron pocket. I was trimming fat off a shoulder at the back of the shop.
Two numbers off. That's nothing. That's the difference between a new roof and a leaky one.
I thought about the duplex. The porch steps my mother-in-law keeps tripping on. The dog water bowl by the back door that she fills every morning.
She's my ex-wife's mother. She moved in after the divorce. I didn't ask her to stay, but she stays anyway.
The ex herself hasn't called in two years. But her mother buys me scratch-offs sometimes. Says a little hope never hurt.
Most of our customers are from the prison families. Everyone's two numbers off in this town.
I folded the ticket and put it back in my apron. Close doesn't change anything.
But the water bowl is full. Every single morning. That's something.