852. He couldn't believe it. He double‐checked the numbers. He triple‐checked them. He was grateful he hadn't gone blind; he'd always worried the shock would blind him on the spot. He turned the ticket over. He wrote down his name and phone number, and then hers. Next to her name, he wrote 70 percent. She had worked so hard most of her life to make life comfortable for her invalid mom and her ungrateful son. He should give her the whole thing, he thought. But he needed to share something with his own mom and siblings. He took a picture of the front and back of the ticket. He wondered where he could put the ticket so it would be safe that night, in case anyone broke in. He wasn't going to tell her until a lottery representative on Beaver Street high‐fived him. After all these years, life was—finally!—good! 3.5