- “Throwing money in the toilet again, Patty?”
- He’d say it every Saturday morning. Coming into the kitchen in his bathrobe. Seeing me with the newspaper and my coffee and the ticket.
- “It’s two dollars, Gary.”
- “Two dollars a week,” he said. “For nineteen years. You know how much that is?”
- “About two thousand dollars.”
- “Two thousand dollars,” Gary said. “You could’ve bought a new bass boat motor with that.”
- He never asked what the numbers were.
- He never asked why I picked them.
- He never once turned the ticket over.
- Nineteen years passed.
- We won nothing.
- Until the one Saturday I forgot to check.
- My sister June went into the hospital on the second Tuesday in September.
- Her heart. Again. Congestive heart failure. Her legs swelled up so bad she couldn’t walk. Her lips were blue.
- They took her to Erlanger in Chattanooga. The big regional hospital. Forty minutes north.
- They said she needed a valve replacement. Her third heart surgery. At fifty-five.
- They said her insurance wouldn’t cover all of it. They said there’d be a gap. Forty, fifty thousand dollars, maybe. They said they’d talk to the financial counselor.
- June cried when they told her.
- She works at the Dollar General on Cleveland Highway. She’s divorced. She rents a trailer. She doesn’t have fifty thousand dollars.
- She doesn’t have five.
- I drove up every day.
- Every single day that week. Tuesday through Sunday. Forty minutes up. Sat with her for six hours. Forty minutes back.
- I bought my Friday ticket on the way up. Out of habit. Mr. Mehta had it ready.
- I signed it in the car. In the parking lot of the gas station. On my knee.
- Patricia Ann Whitmire Dunn.
- Week 988. June’s in the hospital again. Third surgery. Please.
- Mr. Mehta came out to the car to initial it. He always did when I was in a hurry.
- A.M. — 9/12/25.
- I stuck it under the pineapple when I got home that night.
- At eleven o’clock.
- Exhausted.
- On Saturday, I left at six in the morning.
- I didn’t check the numbers.
- I forgot.
- For the first time in nineteen years, I forgot.
- I forgot on Sunday too.
- And Monday. And Tuesday.
- June’s surgery was Monday. Eight hours. I sat in the waiting room at Erlanger the whole time. Tessa came and sat with me on her lunch break.
- June made it.
- She was in the ICU until Tuesday night.
- On Wednesday, I finally slept in.
- I came downstairs at nine. In my robe. I made coffee.
- I looked at the refrigerator.
- At the pineapple magnet.
- The pineapple magnet was holding nothing.
- The ticket was gone.
- I looked on the floor. Under the fridge. Behind the trash can. In the junk drawer.
- Nothing.
- Gary was in the living room. In his recliner. Watching The Price Is Right.
- He’d taken the week off. He said he had vacation days to use.
- Gary never took vacation days. Not in thirty-four years. Except for fishing.
- “Gary,” I said. “Have you seen my lottery ticket? It was on the fridge.”
- He didn’t look up from the TV.
- “Probably fell behind the fridge,” he said. “It’s two bucks, Patty.”
- I looked at him.
- At the back of his head. His thinning gray hair. His bathrobe.
- He was holding the remote very still.
- “Okay,” I said.
- That night, Gary was acting way too nice.
- He made me tea. Chamomile. With honey. He brought it to me in the living room.
- He hadn’t made me tea in thirty-four years.
- He sat down on the couch next to me.
- “How’s June doing?” he asked.
- I stared at him.
- Gary hadn’t asked a single question about my sister in ten years.
- Not when she had her second surgery. Not when her husband left her. Not when she lost her apartment in Chattanooga and moved into the trailer.
- Not once.
- “She’s okay,” I said slowly. “She’s out of the ICU. They’re moving her to a regular room tomorrow.”
- “That’s good,” Gary said. “That’s real good.”
- He patted my knee.
- “You’ve been working so hard, Patty,” he said. “Driving up there every day. You should rest.”
- He patted my knee.
- Gary hadn’t touched my knee since 2015.
- I drank the tea.
- I didn’t say anything.
- On Thursday morning, I saw the numbers.
- The Daily Citizen-News. On the kitchen table. Gary had left it there. Folded open to the sports page.
- I unfolded it.
- I turned to page six. The lottery results. Where they always are.
- Fantasy 5 — Friday, September 12:
- 3 — 11 — 14 — 16 — 22
- I read it once.
- I read it again.
- I read it a third time.
- Three. Robby.
- Eleven. Tessa.
- Fourteen. Mama.
- Sixteen. My wedding.
- Twenty-two. Kyle.
- Underneath, in a little box:
- One winning ticket sold at Highway 41 Gas & Go, Dalton. Jackpot: $2,412,000. Currently unclaimed.
- I sat down.
- Right there. On the kitchen floor. In my robe. With the newspaper in my lap.
- My back against the dishwasher.
- I sat there for a long time.
PART 4
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