Martim Crumbley stood in the kitchen doorway and watched his wife shake his lottery jar like a maraca. Coins rattled inside the mayonnaise glass. Three years of skimmed tips. Three years of walking past the vending machine at work. That jar was the down payment on a ticket, and the ticket was the down payment on the beachside diner he'd wanted since he was eight years old. Marge stood in the middle of the linoleum with her arms crossed over the jar, curlers still pinned in her hair. Her slippers were planted like she owned the floor, which she did. "Hidden in the toilet tank, Martim. The toilet tank. Like I don't clean in there." "I was saving it." His shirt stuck to his back. The pocket protector sagged with two leaking pens. He was too tired to sound angry, and that made it worse. "Saving it for what? Scratch tickets? Melody needs shoes. Dexter broke the screen door again. And you're stuffing quarters in a jar like a child." She tipped the jar. Coins slid against the glass. "I'm taking this to the grocery today. Every cent." "Marge. Please." He stepped forward. "One ticket. That's all I want out of it. One." "One ticket is how idiots stay idiots." He heard his daughter crying somewhere down the hall. He heard his son thumping a wall. He looked at his wife's face, red and set, and he understood she would empty the jar into a cart of frozen dinners before noon. So he lied. "Fine," he said. "You're right. Take it." Her eyebrows jumped. She'd expected a fight. She squinted at him, waiting for the trick. "Take it," he said again. "Shoes for Melody. Whatever you need. I'll get my coffee at work." He walked past her to the counter and picked up his keys. His hand was steady. He was surprised by that. "Good," Marge said, quieter now, thrown. "Good. That's finally sensible." He kissed the top of her curlers because it would sell it. Then he walked out to the driveway before she could change her mind about being right. In the car he sat a moment with both hands on the wheel. The jar was gone. Three years, gone. But he had eleven dollars folded in his sock from last Friday's tips, tucked there the night he'd found her going through his wallet. He'd forgotten about it until this morning, when he'd put on the same socks he wore yesterday because he was too tired to find clean ones. Eleven dollars. Five tickets, if he was careful. Maybe six. He backed out of the driveway. The jackpot drawing was tonight. He needed to reach the gas station before his shift, before Marge counted the coins and realized how little was actually in the jar, and before whatever came next found him first.