Distinctly Montana Magazine

w w w. d i s t i n c t ly m o n ta n a . c o m 25 might look like. The only person he had told, sworn to secrecy on pain of lost investment, was his financial advisor. When it was just his paltry IRAs Fred was always courteous and responsive; but when he told Fred that maybe, just maybe, he had won "the big one," the man's jaw dropped, quite literally dropped, and standard-issue courtesy morphed immediately to the realm of deference, then an outright solicitousness which he found unsettling. Fred had addressed him as "Mr." when he left. He had never before done that. Bret looked down again at the ticket, noticing the slight tear across "Mega Millions" where he had first pulled it from the tight pocket of his jeans. Mindlessly he finished the rip, tearing the top of the ticket off, then watching it flutter across the escarpment and drift downwind among the lodgepole pines. He suspected that wouldn't really invalidate the ticket, as the numbers and bar code were still in place. They didn't need both, did they? The bar code was probably enough, he figured, making another tear, bisecting the numbers in a jag- ged edge. Unreadable now…the bar code still intact…still ok, maybe… he whispered into the wind. A sharp yelp brought him back to the now bright blue sky and the hard reality of the weathered granite which had now numbed his rear end. Early morning shadows were rapidly retreating from the town, and a faint sense of bustle sighed up- ward from streets far distant. Max was looking at him expec- tantly, head cocked as dogs do, as if asking "what next?" Yes, what next, Bret considered, looking at Max, then at the remainder of his winning ticket…what next? Crazy how this could happen, really crazy. Everything would change, everything. Was that what he wanted? Yes, of course! Who wouldn't want that kind of wealth? Think of all the good it might do. Think of friends, family, people in need. He could help them now, yes he could help them all, every last one of them. But could he help himself? Would he ever be the same? His apprehension morphed to dread, his stomach chewed away at its newfound anxiety. Holding the ticket to the bright blue sky he squinted into the light before letting it go, the breeze taking it down into the pines, a flicker of white for only moments before disappearing into the dark green shade, like a moth taken to cover. Max yelped again, impatient now…let's get going. Bret gave the dog a quick two-handed rubdown, watching his tail stop mid-wag in focused pleasure at the unexpected attention. He started down, whistling a pop-tune from the 70s, and thought about that first ice-cold beer he would have at The Cannery that very afternoon. It was a fine day, he thought, a fine day indeed.

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