“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.
