“Mrs. Dunn,” Linda said carefully. “Can you tell me what’s written on the back of this ticket?”
“Yes,” I said.
I closed my eyes.
“In blue ink,” I said. “From a Highway 41 Gas & Go pen. It says Patricia Ann Whitmire Dunn.”
Linda was quiet.
“Under that,” I said, “it says Week 988. June’s in the hospital again. Third surgery. Please.”
I heard Linda take a breath.
“And next to my signature,” I said, “it says A.M. And a date. 9/12/25.”
Linda didn’t say anything for a long time.
In the background, Gary had stopped shouting.
“Ma’am,” Linda said finally. “Who is A.M.?”
“Arjun Mehta,” I said. “He owns the Highway 41 Gas & Go. He sold me the ticket. At 7:42 on Friday morning, September twelfth. He initialed it. As a witness. Right after I signed it. He’s done that for every ticket I’ve ever bought.”
“Every ticket?”
“Nine hundred and eighty-eight of them,” I said. “Every Friday. For nineteen years.”
There was a long silence.
“Mrs. Dunn,” Linda said. “I need to put you on hold.”
She came back eleven minutes later.
“Mrs. Dunn,” she said. “I’ve spoken with my supervisor. And with our security office. And with the Georgia Bureau of Investigation liaison who’s assigned to our building.”
I didn’t say anything.
“I need to ask you some questions,” Linda said. “Is that all right?”
“Yes.”
“When did you last see this ticket?”
“Friday night,” I said. “September twelfth. Around eleven p.m. I put it on my refrigerator. Under a pineapple magnet.”
“And when did you notice it was missing?”
“Wednesday morning. The seventeenth.”
“Did you ask your husband about it?”
“I did. He said it probably fell behind the fridge. He said it was two bucks.”
“Mrs. Dunn,” Linda said. “Did you give your husband permission to take this ticket?”
“No.”
“Did you give him permission to claim it?”
“No.”
“Did you know he was coming here today?”
I looked at my tomato plants.
“I knew,” I said. “When he patted his wallet at the door. I knew.”
“Mrs. Dunn,” Linda said. “Your husband has told us that this ticket was purchased with marital funds. That you’re married. That he has the right to claim it on behalf of both of you.”
“We’re married,” I said. “For now. He filed for divorce on Tuesday.”
There was a pause.
“He filed for divorce,” Linda said slowly. “On Tuesday.”
“The day after the ticket disappeared from my refrigerator,” I said. “Four days after the drawing.”
Linda didn’t say anything for a long time.
“Mrs. Dunn,” she said finally. “He’s also told us that the signature on the back is his wife’s handwriting. That you sign things for him all the time. That it doesn’t matter whose name is on the back.”
I laughed.
I couldn’t help it.
“Linda,” I said. “Can I tell you something?”
“Of course.”
“For thirty-four years,” I said, “my husband has put his name on everything. The house. The truck. The boat. The bank account. The mailbox. The Christmas cards.”
I picked up the shoebox from the table next to me.
“Nineteen years ago,” I said, “my mother was dying. Three days before she passed, she asked me to promise her something. She said, Find one thing. Just one thing that’s yours. And put your name on it. Every week. So you don’t forget you have one.”
Linda was quiet.
“So I did,” I said. “Every Friday. One lottery ticket. Two dollars. And I signed my name on the back. My whole name. Including my maiden name. My mother’s name.”
I opened the shoebox.
“I have nine hundred and eighty-seven of them right here,” I said. “On my porch. In a shoebox. Every single one signed. Every single one numbered. Every single one initialed by Arjun Mehta with the date.”
“Mrs. Dunn,” Linda said. Her voice was different now. Softer. “Nine hundred and eighty-seven?”
“The nine hundred and eighty-eighth is in your office,” I said. “In my husband’s hand.”
The Georgia Bureau of Investigation interviewed Gary for three hours.
In a conference room at the Lottery Claims Center.
I found out later what he told them.
At first, he said the ticket was his. He said he bought it.
They showed him the signature.
He said I signed it for him. He said I always signed things for him.
They showed him Week 988. June’s in the hospital again. Third surgery. Please.
He said he didn’t know what that meant.
They showed him A.M. — 9/12/25.
He said he didn’t know who A.M. was.
Then the GBI agent called Arjun Mehta.
Mr. Mehta was at the register when the call came. He told me later. He said a man from the GBI asked if he’d sold a Fantasy 5 ticket on September twelfth to a Patricia Dunn.
Mr. Mehta said yes.
The agent asked how he knew.
Mr. Mehta said, “Because I have sold her the same ticket every Friday for nineteen years. Three, eleven, fourteen, sixteen, twenty-two. I could tell you the numbers in my sleep.”
The agent asked if he’d initialed the back.
Mr. Mehta said yes.
The agent asked why.
Mr. Mehta told me what he said.
He said, “Nineteen years ago, a woman came into my store the week her mother died. She was crying. She asked me how to buy a lottery ticket. She’d never bought one before. Then she signed the back with a name I had never heard her use. Her maiden name. And she asked me to witness it.”
He said, “I did not ask her why. I could see why. She wanted somebody to know that she had signed her own name. On something that was hers.”
He said, “So I witnessed it. Every week. For nineteen years. I have never missed one. Not even when I had my gallbladder out. My son came in and did it.”
He said, “I also keep a log.”
The agent asked what log.
Mr. Mehta told me later he went into his back office. He opened a filing cabinet. He took out a binder.
Black. Three-ring. Thick.
On the cover, in his handwriting:
MRS. DUNN — FRIDAYS.
Inside were nine hundred and eighty-eight pages.
One for every Friday.
The date. The time. The numbers. The ticket serial number from the receipt the machine printed out. His initials.
And a small note.
Every week.
Mrs. Dunn came in at 7:15. Bought gas, $38. One Fantasy 5. Signed back in my presence. Initialed.
Some weeks there was more.
Mrs. Dunn’s son Robby graduated. She was very proud.
Mrs. Dunn’s daughter is a nurse now. She showed me the picture.
Mrs. Dunn was crying today. She did not say why. I did not ask.
Mrs. Dunn’s sister is in the hospital again. She was in a hurry. I went to her car.
The GBI agent asked Mr. Mehta why he kept the log.
Mr. Mehta told me what he said.
He said, “Because when my father came to this country from Gujarat in 1979, he bought a small grocery store in Atlanta. He put my mother’s name on the business license. Because he wanted her to have something that was hers. Something no one could take.”
He said, “When my father died, my uncle tried to take the store. He said it was the family’s store. My mother had the license. With her name. My uncle lost.”
He said, “When Mrs. Dunn asked me to witness her name, I thought of my mother. I thought, somebody should keep a record. In case someday somebody tries to say it is not hers.”
