I buy one scratch-off with my cigarettes every morning. I never win. That’s not the point. It’s the ritual. Something to keep my hands busy.
“New scratchers in, ma’am,” says the clerk—his tag reads Hank, probably fake. He points to JESUS TAKE THE WHEEL! All glitter and guilt behind the glass.
I haven’t seen the inside of a church since my mom disappeared. I remember the dress she wore every week, tiny pearl buttons. Scrubbed by hand and hung in the yard to dry.
I hand maybe-Hank five bucks. He hands me Jesus. I scratch carefully, not enough to offend Him. Three words appear in all caps:
ADOPT A PUPPY.
I’ve thought about it. Never the right time. I live alone now, in my childhood home. The wallpaper’s still peeling in the spare room where she used to pray. Door locked, lights off. Dad hated noise.
At the shelter, the barking is overwhelming. I almost leave. Then I see him: a blonde mutt in the back corner, watching the exit. I take him home. Name him Little Hank.
The next morning, another Jesus.
READ OF MICE AND MEN ON A PARK BENCH IN YOUR NICEST DRESS.
I pull out the floral gown from my younger sister’s wedding and grab Of Mice and Men off the shelf. Park bench. Page one. A man approaches, asks about Steinbeck. Says he always cries at the end. We talk until the streetlights come on.
My dad would have hated him. Sensitive, bookish. Alive.
That night, I tell Little Hank everything. He yawns, curls up on my pillow.
The next scratcher:
KNOCK OUT YOUR TOOTH.
I laugh. Then pause. Should I? I’ve done worse for less. I find a pair of pliers under the sink, try not to think too hard about it.
At the dentist, I explain the “accidental fall” that dislodged my top right canine. She frowns. “Good thing you came in,” she says, both hands in my mouth. “That tooth was badly infected.”
One more, I tell myself. Just one more miracle.
DIG.
The backyard is overgrown. Ground resisting.
My shovel hits something solid.
Hollow. White.
Little Hank goes wild. Barking like he already knows.
Bone. Then another.
A few pearl buttons, dulled by dirt.
But Jesus didn’t say when to stop.
So I don’t.
Not with her so close.
