Marcia’s voice softened on the line. “Mrs. Fenwick, would you like to know what is written on the back?” I set down my glass. “Please.” She hesitated, then read it slowly: “This ticket belongs to Dolores Fenwick, wife of Ray, and no one else.” My throat tightened. For sixteen years I had written those same words in blue ink, every Friday, and Ray had never once turned a ticket over.

Then Marcia lowered her voice. “Ma’am, there is something else. Your husband just told us he bought this ticket himself. But the gas station’s camera records every purchase.” Behind her, Ray’s shouting stopped. A man’s calm voice said, “Sir, please step away from the counter.” I gripped the porch rail, because Marcia then said, “Mrs. Fenwick, the security manager wants to speak with you right now.”