Free Last Night at the Lobster by Stewart O’Nan Page B

smiling, and sends him off, still slightly confused at what just happened, like someone waking from a spell. He can’t imagine having that kind of power—the kind Jacquie had over him, still has—and thinks he’ll always be helpless and stupid that way, uncool. But he has Deena’s present, has it wrapped and bagged, the telltale receipt hidden in his wallet, and that’s exactly what he came here to do, no matter how he got it done.
    And done quickly—he still has another twelve minutes. Walking back, he sees a biker-looking dude on crutches outside the Gingerbread House and remembers Eddie wanted some lottery tickets. There’s no place upstairs that would sell them, so he takes the escalator down and cruises the main hallway. All he needs is a news-stand, but there’s only a useless Walden Books. Smoker’s World is closed. He can’t believe no one in this entire mall sells something as basic as lottery tickets, but the directory confirms it. The closest place is going to be one of the gas marts by the highway—the Mobil beside Friday’s, or the Citgo next to Daddy’s Junky Music, probably closer. If he backtracks and cuts through Kohl’s and goes out the side by Ruby Tuesday’s, he’ll only have to walk partway across the lot.
    And like that he decides to do it, a knight errant accepting a quest. He turns on his heel and heads back past Weathervane and RadioShack and the empty stage. With no strolling crowd to navigate, he’s making great time. He turns in to Kohl’s and follows the maze of linoleum aisles to the rear of the store, where the doors give on the lot. It’s almost dark, though his watch says it’s just short of four. A car passes with its lights on and its wipers flipping, its wheels packed with snow. He pauses on the wet matting between the doors to zip his ruined jacket, wishing he had a hat, then mashes the crashbar and bounces out.
    Whoever salted did a shitty job. There’s no line between the sidewalk and the lot, just a drop-off, the lip interrupted by the smooth dip of a handicapped ramp. The snow is easily a foot deep, and Manny churns for the middle of the road, his socks already logged. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. It’s early—he can still turn back—but once he’s in the lane it’s okay. The Citgo’s sign is lit, snow blowing through its halo. Trudging, waiting for a plow to come rumbling up behind him, he keeps it in sight like a mirage, afraid it will disappear. Flakes stream out of the darkness, making him blink, melting into his skin, and there’s something elemental and pleasing about the feeling. Humping up the ramp, shoes slipping, fingers freezing, he’s as happy as he’s been all day.
    The one car on the highway is a news van from Channel 30 with a satellite dish on top, its chains rattling. The road is furrowed and white. The lights clunk and change for no one.
    The uniformed cashier at the Citgo is alone on her cell phone and doesn’t seem surprised to see him shamble in out of the storm. Behind her on the wall are a dozen locked roll dispensers of flashy scratch-off tickets. He’s never played the lottery—his lita always said it was for idiots like his Uncle Rudy—and has to ask the woman for a Powerball form. She doesn’t stop talking, just points to a display with the current pot written in Magic Marker: $285 million.
    9 Ways To Win , the form promises, and lists the odds. He has to choose five numbers between 1 and 55, then one number between 1 and 42—the red Powerball number. Match them all and Eddie wins the grand prize. Match the five white numbers and he wins a hundred thousand dollars. Four white and the Powerball, five thousand. The other six ways pay a hundred bucks or less, not much of a thrill. Eddie said he had five, so Manny will buy him five more, doubling his odds, but what numbers should he pick? He knows the cashier can just have the machine choose them at random, but that’s like not even playing.
    For the first ticket, he