I had spent thirty years keeping the books for a lumber company in Tucson, balancing the ledgers down to the very last penny.

I had never once bought a lottery ticket in my whole life, because I believed hard math always beat luck.

“Just the one, Jose,” I said.

“A quick pick.”

He tapped the blue key on his terminal.

The machine hissed and fed out a narrow strip of stiff paper with six numbers printed on it in black ink.

“That’s two dollars even,” Jose said, picking up one of the single bills from the rubber mat.

He passed me the ticket with a small, respectful smile.