Hurley didn’t drink, really, but the liquor store was his favorite place to buy lottery tickets. He’d never heard of anyone celebrating a multi-million-dollar windfall at the gas station where some teenager with a face pierced full of tin randomly generated winning numbers between yawns.

Carl behind the counter owned The House of Spirits, but he rarely spoke unless spoken to. What he had against music or a television, nobody knew. He kept the place meditation quiet except for the hum of neon signs and beer coolers.

Hurley almost felt bad putting a twenty down for tickets. The bill’s quiet rustle against the linoleum counter destroyed the monastic atmosphere.

“Ever bring leftover chili to work just to hear yourself fart?” Hurley joked.

Carl pulled a handful of tickets out of the machine without a word.

“I’m only kidding, man. I need you on my side. Right now, this lottery is my retirement plan.”

Carl nodded, then slowly leaned forward as if about to share an enormous secret. “Pretty funny. Everybody knows you and Marjorie left the reunion together. Her small fortune not enough for you?”

Marjorie was a divorced adult. Three times over, in fact. But Carl’s punch hit faster than Hurley could start explaining that math. Hurley’s nose, upon impact, busted open like a water balloon.

Carl leaned forward again. “I was husband number two. Apparently, nobody remembers that. Husband number three didn’t waste time chasing after her either. He’s getting his due now, I suppose.”

Some loud college guys walked in right then, clearly oblivious to the customs of the place.

Hurley wadded up his lottery tickets to wipe away the blood.