I’ll take one ticket,” I heard myself say. “Quick pick.”

The machine hummed and printed out a small slip of paper with six numbers. I folded it carefully and slipped it into my purse. Harold, my late husband, would have called me foolish. But Harold had been gone for four years, and clearly, I’d already lost everything that mattered anyway.

The lottery drawing was Saturday night. I watched it alone, with a cup of tea. When the numbers appeared on screen, I didn’t believe them at first. 7, 14, 21, 35, 47, and the Powerball, 9. Every single number on my crumpled five-dollar ticket. Sixty-two million dollars.