PART 10 – I Returned to the Gas Station Where the Numbers Began, Hoping the Familiar Counter Might Help Me Understand What Had Gone Missing

The gas station looked the same as it always had.

The two pumps stood outside beneath the faded sign.

A delivery truck was parked near the side wall.

Someone had left a paper cup beside the trash can.

I pulled into the lot and sat in the car for a moment before going inside.

I had bought my ticket there every Friday for nineteen years.

The place had become part of my week.

I knew the woman behind the counter.

I knew which refrigerator held the milk.

I knew the floor near the entrance squeaked when someone stepped on the loose tile.

I had never imagined I would return with a newspaper announcing a winning ticket and no ticket of my own.

Inside, the bell rang above the door.

The woman at the register looked up.

"Morning, Patty."

"Morning."

She glanced at my empty hands.

"Not getting your usual today?"

I felt a little uncomfortable.

I had come for groceries and coffee, not to buy another ticket.

"No, not today."

She nodded and returned to the register.

I picked up what I needed and paid.

Then I stood beside the counter for a moment, wondering whether to say something.

The woman looked at me again.

"Everything all right?"

I looked toward the small display where the lottery slips were printed.

"I saw the winning numbers in the paper."

Her expression changed.

"Yes. Everybody's been talking about that."

I tried to keep my voice casual.

"Did you hear anything about who bought the ticket?"

She shook her head.

"No name. The paper said it hadn't been claimed."

I nodded.

That was all I had expected her to know.

I didn't tell her my numbers had matched.

I didn't tell her the ticket had disappeared.

I didn't want the story spreading around town before I understood what had happened.

I thanked her and picked up my bags.

Outside, I loaded the groceries into the car.

The sun was already warm on the windshield.

I sat behind the wheel and rested my hands on it.

I remembered the first Friday I had bought a ticket there.

I had been standing at the counter with a few groceries and some change in my purse.

The woman working that day had asked whether I wanted to choose my own numbers.

I had said yes.

I chose the birthdays and the dates that mattered to me.

Then I took the ticket home.

That night, I made myself a promise.

I would sign the back of every ticket as soon as I brought it into the house.

It was a simple precaution.

I had heard enough stories about people losing tickets or finding them after somebody else had picked them up.

I didn't think I would ever win anything.

I only knew that if I ever did, I wanted to be able to identify my ticket.

So I signed my name on the back.

Patricia Dunn.

Every Friday.

The same name I had signed on forms, birthday cards, and school documents for years.

I put the ticket beneath the pineapple magnet and forgot about it until Saturday morning.

That first week, I checked the numbers and lost.

The next week, I did the same.

Then I did it again.

Over time, the signature became as much a part of the routine as buying the ticket.

I never thought of it as important.

I never imagined that one day someone might look at the back of a winning ticket and ask why the signature didn't match the man trying to claim it.

I sat in the car, remembering the ink drying on the paper.

Then I started the engine.

I drove home slowly.

The groceries needed putting away, and I didn't want the milk sitting in the car while I thought about the past.

When I reached the house, I carried everything inside.

I put the eggs in the refrigerator.

I placed the bread in the cupboard.

I poured the coffee into its container and wiped the counter where a few grains had spilled.

The routine calmed me.

Afterward, I sat at the kitchen table with my purse beside me.

I had not told Linda about the signature habit because I hadn't yet explained why it mattered to me.

But now I understood what I needed to say if she called again.

The ticket had not simply been a piece of paper with numbers on it.

I had signed every one.

That signature was the one thing I had done consistently beyond buying the ticket and checking the results.

It was my small safeguard.

I had never told Gary that I considered it important.

He had never asked.

Perhaps he had never noticed.

I couldn't know.

I went to the refrigerator and looked at the pineapple magnet.

I remembered sliding the ticket beneath it on Friday.

I remembered smoothing the paper with my fingertips so it wouldn't curl.

I remembered Gary dismissing the whole habit as a waste of money.

Then I remembered him leaving that morning with his hand against his back pocket.

I returned to the table.

There was still no call.

I checked the clock.

The afternoon was moving along.

I decided not to spend the rest of the day waiting beside the telephone.

I had lived too many years with my attention fixed on Gary's moods and movements.

I wasn't going to replace that with a different kind of waiting.

I made myself a sandwich.

I ate it by the window.

Then I took the laundry upstairs and folded it.

When I came back down, my phone was still where I had left it.

I picked it up and checked that the volume was turned on.

Then I put it down again.

I couldn't make the claims office work faster by staring at the screen.

I couldn't make Gary tell the truth by imagining what he might say.

All I could do was wait for the next piece of information.

And this time, I knew one thing I hadn't understood before.

The signature on the back of that ticket was not an accident.

It was something I had done from the very beginning.

Click here to continue reading: PART 11: The More I Remembered My Friday Routine, the More I Understood Why One Small Signature Could Matter More Than Gary Expected