Chapter 1: The Lucky Number
The smell of ammonia and teenage sweat had been the soundtrack of Arthur Vance’s life for forty years. At 68, his knees popped with every step, a rhythmic reminder of decades spent pushing a heavy mop bucket across the linoleum floors of Oak Creek High School. To the students, he was a ghost. To the faculty, he was a fixture, like the water fountains or the trophy case.
It was a Tuesday afternoon, and Arthur was on his knees scrubbing graffiti off a locker in the varsity hallway. Someone had taken a permanent marker and scrawled "Vance is a Loser" in jagged black letters. It wasn’t the first time. It was likely the son of the man who used to write the exact same thing on Arthur's locker fifty years ago.
Arthur sighed, his breath wheezing slightly. He reached into the breast pocket of his gray, stained jumpsuit. He wasn't reaching for his inhaler, but for a crumpled piece of thermal paper he had bought at the gas station three days ago. He hadn’t checked the numbers yet. He liked to save the disappointment for his lunch break; it gave him something to look forward to, even if the result was always the same.
He pulled out his cracked flip phone and squinted at the winning numbers posted on the local news site. 04... 12... 19... 33... 50... Powerball: 07.
Arthur looked at the ticket. Then the phone. Then the ticket again. The world seemed to tilt on its axis. The roar of the hallway air conditioner faded into a dull hum. He didn't have three numbers. He didn't have four. He had them all. Every single one. One hundred and forty million dollars.
His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. He wasn't just rich. He was wealthier than the entire town of Oak Creek combined. He started to stand up, a laugh bubbling in his throat, when the double doors at the end of the hall slammed open.
Principal Higgins marched down the hall, his shoes clicking aggressively. "Vance! What are you doing on your knees? Sleeping?"
Arthur stuffed the ticket deep into his pocket, his hand trembling. "Just cleaning, sir."
"Cleaning? It looks like loitering," Higgins sneered, looming over him. "The budget committee just met. We need to trim the fat. And frankly, Arthur, you’re the fattest trimming we have. Hand over your keys. You’re done. Effective immediately."
Arthur felt the paper burning a hole in his pocket as Higgins extended a hand for the keys. He was holding a ticket worth a fortune, but as he looked at the man firing him, he realized that walking away now wasn't enough—he needed to stay right here to destroy them.
