The Lottery Winner. Emilie Rose

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      She shooed the inquisitive bird. “How can you be sure?”

      “Because Big Brother will be watching. Not just the guys in uniform doing drive-bys, but also with the security systems we’ve installed at the folks’ and your place.”

      “Afraid to step outside is no way to live.”

      “I hear ya.” He paused. “Jessamine, Dad and I have come to a decision.”

      His ultraserious tone and the use of her given name rather than the hated nickname trapped the breath in her lungs. “One I’m not going to like, I gather.”

      “Depends on how you look at it. Remember we used a chunk of your first check to rent that house for you for three months? Well, we want you to stay there for the duration. It doesn’t make sense to throw that money away when we’re still working the kinks out of security here.”

      Her spine snapped straight. “But you said the only reason to pay for three months was because it was cheaper in the long run than renting week to week.”

      “And it was—is. It’s also the only way to guarantee you’d be in the same secure place while you’re away.”

      “You said a month. Six weeks at the most. It’s been that. I’ve already missed Thanksgiving.”

      “Turkey is turkey. It tastes the same every year. Look, we can’t make you stay, but everyone in the family will sleep easier if you do.”

      “But what about Christmas? And Mom’s birthday?”

      “Dad’s taking her away somewhere secret for her birthday. He won’t even tell me where. She won’t be home. We’ll have Christmas when you get back, and then we’ll really have something to celebrate.” His radio squawked in the background. “I gotta go. Love you. I’ll check in again tomorrow before my shift.”

      And then the phone—her only connection with home—went dead. She lowered her hand and stared at the silent device. Loneliness welled within her.

      Christmas was only twenty days away. And her mother’s birthday was three days afterward. She’d never spent either day away from her family. Pressure built in her chest, rising up to clog her throat. She wanted to scream but settled for stomping her feet. The gull got spooked and flew away. She glanced around to make sure no one had witnessed her tantrum.

      Everyone dreamed of winning the lottery. It was supposed to be a good thing. For her, it had been a curse. If she could’ve afforded to give away the money, she would have. But she couldn’t. Her parents’ health insurance premiums had risen so drastically in the past year that they’d had to drop coverage, something they couldn’t afford with her dad’s Parkinson’s disease. He needed to stay on his medicines to slow the disease’s progression. Jessamine’s unexpected windfall had allowed her to reinstate their policy and get her father back on his prescriptions. Her new income had also paid for the security systems each house had suddenly required because of her blasted win.

      And then there was her job—or lack of one. Would the school board let her return to work when this media thundercloud blew away? She loved teaching and missed her students. But this last round of budget cuts had been hard on the noncore classes, and she’d felt vulnerable even before her temporary dismissal.

      She bounded to her feet then, and with leaden steps resumed her route toward Trumbo Road. If she didn’t get moving, she’d start bawling. She’d been exiled from her home and job, cut off from her friends—although she wasn’t sure who the real ones were anymore—and even her church family. She’d attempted to find a church to attend down here, but folks in this surprisingly tight-knit community were too inquisitive of newcomers. After visiting three she’d quit looking and settled into her own Sunday morning routine of sorts. The weeks ahead loomed like an eternity. But she’d get through them. Somehow.

      Maybe when she got back to the house she’d paint the Key deer. Again. Or the hibiscus. Again. The coconut palms? A dark swoop crossed her peripheral vision, then a bird splashed down. No. Her miserable mood would be better illustrated by painting the cormorants. A quartet of the prehistoric-looking black birds frequently parked on the end of her dock and spread their drying wings like gargoyles waiting to swoop in and carry her off. And their screeching calls to each other... She shivered despite the sun’s warmth on her skin. The avian squatters creeped her out. She avoided the dock whenever they were present.

      She reached the tall white fence marking the end of her route. The restaurant on the other side was quiet now. When she made her rounds again at dusk, the Fisherman’s Widow’s inside and outside tables would be packed. People would be laughing, silverware clinking, and the kitchen would be emitting heavenly scents. She hadn’t risked eating in a restaurant thus far, but she was tired of her own cooking. Maybe she’d order takeout tonight.

      And then she connected the dots between her brother’s words and her financial status. She was supposed to be operating on a cash-only basis. Adding another six weeks to her stay put her in a dicey situation. She hadn’t budgeted for three months. She’d replenished her art supplies a couple of times, and in the Keys they had cost double what they did at home. That meant she’d have to be very, very frugal if she wanted to have enough money to cover the rest of her stay. Even then, she’d probably run short. And without access to her accounts, she definitely wouldn’t have money to buy Christmas and birthday gifts.

      The irony of being a lottery winner and having her future secured with quarterly checks for practically the rest of her life but being short on actual cash right now didn’t escape her. Her brother had cautioned her not to use a cash machine or credit cards or she might alert someone to her location. She could ask him to send more prepaid debit cards, but he couldn’t access her accounts, either. In his rush to get her out of town, he’d failed to arrange that. He or her parents would have to use their own money to buy the prepaid debit cards until she could pay them back. Not an option she’d take until she was desperate.

      So...she admitted with a sigh, no takeout. No matter how tempting. And no more art supplies.

      She turned to head back for her car. A muffled cry stopped her. Was it a hurt animal? She listened until she heard it again. The whimper sounded human. She immediately recalled stories of babies discarded in Dumpsters—the restaurant’s was on the other side of that fence. But it hadn’t sounded like a baby. Had it? Undecided, she rocked from her heels to her toes.

      She’d worry all day if she didn’t check.

      Tamping down her brother’s dire warnings of kidnapping schemes, she clutched the can of pepper spray in her pocket, rounded the wall and approached the garbage container, then cautiously leaned forward to peer inside the open doors. She saw nothing but the dirty metal bottom. Relieved, she exhaled then recalled the trash trucks had been pulling out of the street when she’d arrived. She heard the noise again. It hadn’t come from the smelly green box beside the building after all but from behind the restaurant. Had one of the delivery people fallen? She bit her lip.

      Should she check it out or mind her own business? She knew what Brandon would say. Not your problem. Go home. But she couldn’t walk away from someone in need.

      As quietly as she could, she inched down the sidewalk past the closed kitchen door to the rear of the building. A woman sat at one of the patio tables with her hands to her face and her chin to her chest. Her short curly hair was a pale shade between blond and silver. Another sob escaped followed by hiccuped breaths.

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