The cashier, a middle-aged woman named Brenda with short graying hair, sat on a wooden stool behind the register, adding up receipts on a small desk calculator.

“Two-dollar drip coffee, dark roast,” I said, setting a clean paper cup under the spout.

Brenda looked up over her reading glasses, squinting a little before she recognized my face.

“You look different than you did a month ago,” she said, leaning on the counter.

“You don’t look like you’re about to fall asleep standing up anymore.”

“I slept eight hours last night for the first time in six months,” I said, laying two dollar bills on the counter.

“Did you ever check that scratch ticket I sold you back in September?” Brenda asked, pointing at the clear plastic dispenser full of colorful ticket rolls.