Then I picked up my purse, locked the side door, and drove down Oakridge Avenue to my nine o’clock retail shift.

The winter air at the Shell station was sharp enough to burn my throat as I walked through the sliding glass doors.

“Two dollars for the black coffee, Claire,” the cashier said, setting a paper cup on the counter before I had even taken out my wallet.

She pushed her reading glasses up her nose and leaned against the lottery display case.

“You look like you could use a miracle today, Claire.”

“Just long hours,” I said, handing her a five-dollar bill.

“Try one of these two-dollar scratch tickets,” she said, tapping the clear glass over the gold and green cards.

“Somebody won fifty bucks on a crossword card yesterday afternoon.”

I took three dollar bills back in change and picked a single scratch ticket from the dispenser.

“Just the coffee is fine, Brenda.”

“Take the ticket,” Brenda said, sliding the thick slip of paper across the laminate counter.

“Good luck shows up when you least expect it.”

I tucked the card into the inside pocket of my wool coat next to my grandmother’s old bank deposit receipts.

The morning retail shift dragged through four hours of rearranging bolts of fabric and logging inventory codes on a handheld scanner.