What Are the Odds?

There's something fundamentally human about pursuing unlikely goals, despite terrible odds of success.

“But when we know the likely outcome, why do we persist?”

I'm Meg Wallitzer and coming up on selected shorts, fiction about hope, luck, literate aliens, lottery winners, and much more. Don't go anywhere. You're listening to selected shorts where our greatest actors

transport us through the magic of fiction, one short story at a time. [Music] Some things in life are rare. Seeing the Aurora Borealis are getting attacks on it.

Some things are exceedingly rare and may never happen to you.

Witnessing Haley's comet or losing your money in a stock market crash. And then there are the categories of things that happen so rarely and to so few people, we'd have to live multiple lifetimes to see them take place. Things like being struck by lightning or say,

"winning the lottery."

“And though these events are exceedingly rare,”

they can occupy an outsized place in our heads as we catastrophize or fantasize about what might be. We might rehearse all the possibilities in our heads, but of course, if one of these staggeringly rare events ever did happen to us,

do we really know how we'd react? On this episode of selected shorts, wild happenings that no one can truly plan for and their effect on the human psyche, at least according to fiction writers.

In one story, a woman with her own little free library finds herself in a book swap with the uncanny. In another story, a lottery winner revisits the person that she was before winning, to find out if she left anything behind.

Our first story is Little Free Library by author Naomi Kritsert.

“Kritsert is a prolific writer who is one Hugo”

and Nebula Awards for her short stories. Her most recent title, "Liberty's Daughter" came out in 2023. And while this story has a touch of magic to it, the extraordinary circumstances it describes do draws in.

It all starts simply with the Little Free Library of the title, and if you haven't noticed these tiny mailbox-like structures in your community, they serve as informal book swaps. I'll save the rest for the story itself, which was read by Malora Harden.

She's an actor with long runs on fan-favorite shows, including the office and the bold type. Her work in film includes you, which she also directed. And now, here's Malora Harden, performing Little Free Library by Naomi Kritsert.

[APPLAUSE] Little Free Library. Megan built her Little Free Library from a kit, because she wanted to make it into art. She sanded the wood and painted it with primer,

then glued on the rocks. She picked up from the lake superior shore over the summer, and used acrylics to paint indigo swirls around them. When she mounted it on the post outside her Saint Paul house, she decided to paint the post, too,

and painted a fuchsia road winding around the post to the box at the top, and outlined the road in smaller pebbles. There was a little bit of glitter in the fuchsia craft paint, and she decided that the book cabinet should have some of that, as well.

Finally, she screwed on the sign that said Little Free Library with the instructions, take a book, return a book.

Megan had never seen a Little Free Library before.

She moved to Saint Paul, but here they were everywhere. Each Little Free Library was basically just a box of free books sheltered from the weather. You could register them on a website, sometimes people specialized in one type of book, or used the second shelf for a seed exchange.

She was figuring she'd start by unloading the books she'd enjoyed, but she knew she'd never read again. She'd moved them up with her, but she didn't have enough space, and anyway, they were mostly just gathering dust. Past along to someone else, they could be read,

and enjoyed, and used. She could see the Little Free Library from her living room window, and watched the first day, as some of the neighborhood kids stopped appearing. When she checked that afternoon, she noticed that Ender's Game, Dragon, Singer,

The next day, someone had left a copy of the Da Vinci code, which made her grimace, but hey,

“there were people who adored that book, so why not?”

She put in her extra copy of the Fellowship of the Ring, along with two Terry Pratchett books. When she got up on Tuesday morning, the Little Free Library was empty. They did warn you on the website that sometimes people just cleaned it out, and she'd taken the time to stamp her own books

always a gift, never for sale, to hopefully discourage anyone

from thinking they could resell them to a used bookstore. She heaved a frustrated sigh, re-stocked it with more books from the box, she'd set aside, and after thinking about it,

“hand-wrote a note that people would see when they opened the library.”

To whomever took all the books, in the future, please take just one or two at a time or consider leaving a book for others, to enjoy. For now, I hope you enjoy reading the books you took. Please share them with others when you're done reading.

When she got home from work on Tuesday afternoon,

someone had taken the copy of "Pon of Prophecy," and on the top shelf of the Little Free Library, where "Pon of Prophecy" had been, they had left behind a sanded piece of wood. That on closer inspection she realized was a hand-carved whistle made from a twig. She took that inside and set it on her mantelpiece,

and then put out Queen of Sorcery. The next day, Queen of Sorcery was gone, and someone had left behind a little metal figurine of a snake. It was very heavy, and reminded her of the antique lead soldiers that had been made as children's toys,

but her parents stored on a high shelf, as decorative objects since lead is a terrible material for a child's toy. She took it inside and put it next to the whistle, then set out the next book from the Belgeriad. For the next two weeks, the mystery borrower left things behind each day.

Some of it very strange, a small, dark, green bird's feather that looked like it had been shed by a black bird, except for the color, a tiny clay vessel with a cork held in place with rust-colored wax, a carved stone animal, two abstracts to identify, a circulate, a thin carved stone that was too big to be a ring,

and too small to be a bracelet, a hand hammered safety pin. These gifts were unnecessary, but delightful. Megan took pictures of them and sent the pictures in email to her friends back home, two of whom ordered free little libraries of their own to give away their own spare books.

They reported back that these boxes turned out to be a great way to meet their neighbors, and everyone thought they were very cool, but they had not been the recipient of feathers or carvings. Then one day, on a page of brittle yellow paper that looked like it had been cut from one of the

“blank pages of an older paperback to the librarian, is there a sequel to the fellowship of the ring?”

I would very much like to read it. I will leave behind anything I have for the other books if you will give them to me. Also, I am sorry about the day I took everything.

I promise I will never do this again. What would you like in trade for the next book about

Frodo if there is one? It was written in ink, slightly blotchy, like the writer had used a dip pin, but didn't quite know how to write with it. Right, Saint Paul had no shortage of artists and centrics. Maybe this could lead to a friendship with someone close by. Grining to herself,

To the person who requested the next book about Frodo, leave me some art you have created,

“and we'll call it a good trade, the librarian. There was no gift the next day.”

But the day after, a piece of paper, again cut from the back of a paper back book, judging from the size, was left behind. Rolled up and tied with a red thread. Megan slipped off the thread and unrolled the paper. Done in the same slightly brownish ink as the letter, it was a line drawing of a cat. This was really getting fun. Megan wondered which of her neighbors this was.

Another request should be coming soon. No one finishes the two towers and doesn't want to read

the return of the king. In the meantime, she left out the next book from the Belgeriad,

“a Valdemar novel, and a picture book about a small fire breathing dragon's trip to the dentist.”

Sure enough, another note was left the next day. To the librarian. Surely there is another book about Frodo. I have drawn you another picture, but if you would prefer something else, I can provide it. The person had drawn a picture of a leaf underneath the note. It looked like a maple leaf with five lobes, but with additional hooks and spikes on the edges so it looked almost fractal. To my correspondent, she wrote, "Please leave me a leaf like the one you drew."

She was expecting something cut out maybe from paper, but it was a real leaf that got left in the place of return of the king, green and fresh from the tree. It looked almost like a maple leaf but not. For extra weirdness, it was February. There weren't any green blooming trees in her neighborhood. It was gray and frigid and everything was blanketed with snow. But maybe they put a leaf in the freezer or something, or maybe the leaf had dropped off

some sort of poted tree. They kept in their house. Or maybe they'd picked it, illicitly while visiting the St. Paul Conservatory, which was filled with tropical trees. She took a picture of the leaf and sent it to her friend back home with the botany hobby to see if she could identify it. Her friend sent her back a slightly baffled message. It did look sort of like a maple, but not a variety of maple she was familiar with. She suggested that Megan tried the extension

service at the U. Instead, Megan stashed it on top of her refrigerator and tried not to think about it. A fun correspondence with an artist playing a game was really all she wanted to imagine or is all doing. But a day later, when she went outside to restock it, she left behind a copy of defending your castle, which she'd bought because it looked hilarious but only ever skimmed through since she had no real intention of digging a moat around her house or installing a ballistic.

That book was gone the next day and a day later, a tiny glinting gold coin was left behind with another letter. To the librarian, I do not know what I did to deserve the favor of the gods,

“but I am grateful, so grateful for your kindness to me. I believed our cause to be lost. I believe”

that I would never have the opportunity to avenge what was done to my family. Now,

suddenly, I have been gifted with a way forward. Blessings on you. If you can bring me more such books, I will leave you every scrap of gold I can find. The gold coin was a tiny disc,

into one side. The other showed either a candelabra or a rib cage, Megan wasn't sure.

Megan's kitchen scale thought the coin weighed four grams, which if it was actually gold, was over 100 dollars worth of gold. Of course, most gold colored metal items were actually gold, but it was noticeably heavy for its tiny size, and when she tried amagged it, it was most definitely not magnetic. In the theory, she could have bitten it, but she didn't want to mess up the pictures

“stamped in. For the first time, she felt a ping of uncertainty. What is really going on here?”

Who am I giving books to? An artist, she told herself firmly, a storyteller, a neighbor.

This is probably bronze or brass or some other yellow, metal, and they hammer it themselves, as a hobby, just like they carved whistles and all the rest. She tucked it in a coloring book about Roman aqueducts and left a note. Who are you? She also left behind a note pad since the thought of someone cutting blank pages out of books to write on, made her feel odd. A few minutes later, she went back out and added a pen. I am a servant to the rightful queen and heir, displaced by her

uncle. At his orders, she took vows to join an order of lay sisters, where she's lived ever since. But all my prayers were answered the day I found your library, and I will forever be your servant,

“librarian of the books of the tree. We have begun constructing a ballistic and secret.”

Please send me more books. Megan bought a copy of the knowledge how to rebuild civilization to put in the box. Then a book on military history, then weapons by the diagram group, then an army tactical manual. Each book was rewarded with coins. All of them stamped with candelabra or skeleton and bird. All of them gold or gold colored at least. She was finding it increasingly hard to concentrate on anything other than her library. On new books to leave, on who exactly might be coming,

“on whether she really still believed that this was an artist and neighbor playing an interesting”

game with her. Twice, she tried to watch the box from her living room overnight. But both times,

she fell asleep. Finally, one day, she found a note. We are ready. Many thanks for all your help.

Pray for our victory and the notes stopped. Someone did take her copy of Greek fire, poisoned arrows and scorpion bombs, but did not leave a coin or a letter. After a few days of nothing, she gathered up the coins and took them to a jeweler who told her that yes, they were a real gold and he could give her 1,245 dollars for the lot if she wanted to sell them. No one spends over a thousand dollars on a joke. She didn't want to sell them.

If she'd been about to lose her house, she'd definitely have done it, but the thought of parting with these tangible evidence of whatever had happened. No, she told the jeweler she think about it and took them home again. Back at her house, she went looking for the leaf. She'd left on top of her refrigerator, but it had dried up and crumbled away. She looked through the gifts again. The ones that had been left before the coins started. She could take them to someone, maybe.

It occurred to her that it might in fact be stolen. That maybe someone was playing a game with her

“and that that person blightly gave away 1,200 dollars worth of gold because it didn't actually”

belong to them. But she looked through the pictures of ancient coins and found nothing that looked like what she had. The hand forged safety pin was a fibula, though, and she found some pictures that were similar. Some were from ancient Greece and ancient Rome. Some were from modern artists telling their wares on Etsy. One warm night spring had arrived finally. She set up a chair in her yard and tried again to sit watch. She dosed despite herself and startled awake at some odd hour of the

“very late night and looked. The box was gone missing. She stared at its spot and then saw it.”

It was back or it had never actually gone. She was left frustratingly uncertain. It felt like

she read a book only to find the last page missing. Then one Monday morning she opened the little free library and found another note. Along with a box that looked like it had been hand carved from a block of wood. All is lost, the note said. Our superior weaponry could not match their advantage of numbers. Our last hope is to send my ladies child forth into your keeping before

“they are upon us. As you keep books so may you keep her child. Tiled, Megan thought with a”

alarm. She opened the box. Nestled inside the wood was a straw lining and an egg. It was large,

not enormous like an ostrich egg but it filled the palm of her hand. It was silver green in color with markings that looked almost like scales. What do you do with eggs? Well, you keep them warm. She took it inside. That was Melora Harden performing Little Free Library by Naomi Kritser. I'm Meg Walitzer. Yes, there has been a proliferation of little free libraries since the pandemic in 2020. Maybe to the point that you, your neighbor and your neighbor's neighbor all have one.

All that said, I still believe making contact with a warring alien race through your little free library is a long shot. When we return another unlikely circumstance winning the lottery and what life might look like after the boat, car and home buying spree, stay where you are. I'm Meg Walitzer. You're listening to selected shorts recorded live and performance at Symphony Space in New York City and at other venues nationwide.

Welcome back. This is selected shorts where our greatest actors transport us through the magic of fiction. One short story at a time. I'm Meg Walitzer. You too can be part of the magic of fiction. See the actors and hear the gasps and laughter alive in a theater near you. While most of our stories are recorded at our home theater of Symphony Space in New York City, every year we pack our bags and take the show on the road. We go coast to

coast, head to selected shorts.org for the latest tour dates and ticket information.

backstage conversations with actors who perform in the show. If you like what you hear,

“please write us a review and tell your friends how much you love selected shorts.”

Next, a piece by Ling Ma. She's the author of the novel Severance and the Story Collection Bliss Montage. Everything she does is unusual and refreshing and funny, which may explain why in 2024 she was awarded the MacArthur Fellowship. This story about home and success and where to find them was published in the Yale Review and this version has been edited slightly for time. Reading this piece is actor Cindy Chung. Her credits include recent off-broadway

productions of the antiquities. She's also been featured on a wide range of TV series, including 13 reasons why and the recent FX hit dying for sex. Now, Cindy Chung performs Ling Ma's winner. Winner. I hadn't returned the keys because the landlord hadn't returned my security deposit.

“That's how I remember it. Though it'd been a long time since I'd moved out.”

I came across the keys again when I was rifling through a desk drawer one day, looking for something, batteries, maybe. There were three in the set, one for the building entrance, another for the mailbox, and the last for the apartment unit itself. I would not have recognized the keys of not for the daisy keychain. I closed the drawer again, not wanting to touch them. The deposit didn't matter by this point. A week passed, then another,

before I thought to return them, it was the most carmically clean solution, but maybe I just wanted to go back. Where I live and where I used to live aren't that far apart. The distance is less than a subway stop. If you took the train, you'd overshoot it. I don't remember the last time

“I was there. There is no time like the present is something my therapist tells me.”

Although I guess that's a common adage. It was midday on a Friday. I put on my shoes and took a walk. My old neighborhood has become gentrified like anywhere else. The assisted living facilities and retirement homes outdated even when I lived there have been converted into luxury condos and rentals. The liquor store was still in business, repainted with a selfie-baked mural of animals punching each other in a rainbow boxing ring. Inside the inventory had been completely revised. There

were shelves of celebrity tequila and in the fridge section, wellness drinks replaced the old mystic juices and coke varieties. Those thick goya netters. I took a bottle of mushroom infused water that was inexplicably 799 and when I went to check out, I saw that they had still not taken the banner down. There was a photo of me on it shaking hands with the owner as we both looked at the camera. My old bangs, my greasy skin. Winning lottery ticket sold here $60 million. $60 million

is Britney Spears' estimated net worth. I read somewhere, maybe in an article about myself winning the power ball. The amount was inconceivable to me, but for Britney Spears it somehow didn't

seem enough. I hope she would never have to work again if she didn't want to. I myself have

not worked in years. There's a surcharge of 3% the cashier said. Our policy for credit card purchases under 10 bucks is that okay? It was unlikely that he would recognize me from the banner. The girl in the picture had ascended into lottery winner heaven. She was zip lining through a Colombian jungle or Birkin shopping and Paris or she had joined the fate of most lottery winners and fallen into destitution. When you are struck by the lightning of extreme fortune there is no middle path

forward. Only the path of extremes. It's fine. Thanks. Suddenly I wanted to get out of there. There's a feeling I have sometimes that having narrowly escaped my life I'm about to be found out.

I brace for a blow that never comes. I don't know why. Being lucky isn't a crime. He rang up the

water. You want a bag for this? He gesture toward a stack of black plastic bags with a rice smile. It's seven cents but I won't charge you. No thanks. I took my water and backed away.

but like the liquor store it was still there. Different and only slightly recognizable.

“Walking down the block I almost passed its new brick facade. The building had been repainted a”

neutral Dilbert Gray that covered up its confusing fleshy yellow shade. Someone had planted hedges along the front. Only up close could you tell that they were plastic. I couldn't find the rental office where the landlord used to sit at his desk watching baseball on a small goofy TV discarded fast food wrappers everywhere. When you went in to ask about repairs he would only half listen his eyes darting between you and the game. We called him Mr. B. We didn't know his

surname but it was just as well. He had inherited his family property and had mismanaged it into shambles. A management firm had mounted a sign with its contact details near the entryway. Mr.

B had finally sold the building I assumed and the new owner had contracted the firm to maintain it.

“When I lived here we heard rumors that Mr. B was going to sell it to a developer and retire”

a matter of when rather than if. I thought to call the listed firm to return the keys but the idea of leaving them with an anonymous company based out in the suburbs held no meaning. It was unlikely that the missing keys had been registered in the sale and transfer of the property. I stood on the sidewalk gathering next sweat. It had gotten hot. I had come out all this way and I had no one to be accountable to. At the building entrance I tried the keys. The door opened

easily. I stepped inside. The musty smell of that foyer, the male room, the hallways was so familiar. Marine air freshener and faint secondhand smoke. Technically I was trespassing but it didn't feel like a crime. You can't trespass into what's familiar. I walked up the stairs to the second floor. It was a small studio at the end of the hallway next to the janitor's closet.

From inside I always seemed to hear the elevator chiming in the night and early morning.

I lived in that place through most of my 20s working at an insurance brokerage firm the entire time. My supervisor was what we would call abusive and toxic now. When I wasn't at the office working I was at home blanked out, sleeping or watching TV. Those are the only two modes. The door had been repainted gray, a lighter shade than the building's exterior. All the doors had been. I recognized the dent along the bottom of my old door from having

“kicked it in anger one night. When I tried the key the door opened just as easily as the one downstairs.”

Someone lived there. It looked like but no one was home. That night lying in bed beside my husband I couldn't quite slip into sleep. One trick to relaxing my therapist advised is envisioning a familiar space. You imagine yourself walking around taking inventory of every detail. As my husband's breathing deepened into little snores I thought back to my old studio that hours earlier I had broken into.

The unit had seen some updates and renovations development probably affected by the management firm. It was tidy and pleasant if a bit impersonal with its soft muted tones, ochre curtains, heather sheets. The framed photos of natural wonders, a cactus palm, a seaside cliff, could have been stock images. The occupant had organized the space more effectively than I had. I respected that they had opted for a twin-sized bed which allowed for a desk and sofa within

the 300 square foot space. The American choice would have been to sink a space like this with an extravagantly large mattress so that all other functions eaten, watching TV surfing online would have to be conducted from where one slept. It is not choosing the big things that is fundamentally American, but the blind insistence on grandiosity despite the reality of circumstances. It's not living beyond your means. It's the unseasing, headless insistence on the best. Whatever that is.

The biggest compliment my supervisor used to give me was, "You're no American." It meant that I had a work ethic adapted to what is necessary, that I was not blind to circumstances. My supervisor often told me this in the evenings when I was staying late at the office at her encouragement or rather at her demand. It was typical for me to stay two even three hours after

My supervisor was born and raised in the country of my parents. I wondered if that was why she had hired me. At times I conflated her approval without my parents. That may be the reason I stayed at the job for as long as I did. The only full-time job I have ever held in my life. I thought her toughness, her demanding nature, would improve me. Not being American, according to her, was also being able to take suffering. It literally took winning the lottery to

quit that job. And even then, I stayed another month to ensure a smooth transition.

You'll never make it. My supervisor said to me routinely, casually, at unexpected moments.

Only toward the end did I question what it was. I didn't have ambitions to climb to the top of the company and I wasn't committed to the field of insurance brokerage, which was ugly and corrupt,

“like all things healthcare related in the United States. What did it mean?”

When I told my supervisor, I had won the lottery. She was confused at first. We were in her office. She wanted me to explain how the powerball system worked. Something I didn't totally understand myself. She was both solemn and overzealously congratulatory. But I was tasked with working through

her confusion with her. Her continual now incestant questioning began to feel exaggerated,

pointed. Any good fortune could not have occurred unless she had personally verified it. Trapped. I had planned to give notice, but it would have to wait until another time. When she asked, "Why you?" I said, "I don't know." The next day was Saturday. Montessori was closed. We did family time. Some configuration of

“stroller walk, coffee shop, farmer's market, and playground. A nice middle-class family doing”

nice middle-class activities. Then we returned home where my son took his nap while I played video

games. My husband read the news in the other room. It began to rain. In the afternoon, we took

our son to the library. In the children's area, I read him a picture book about a zoo filled with sad animals which turned out to be about climate change. We were interrupted by an eerie, synchronized beak, a flash flood warning on everyone's phones. When we prepared to leave, our kid protested with wimpers, then screens. We had to drag him out. He darted into the parking lot, splashing into a puddle before my husband grabbed him wet and wailing. On the drive back, my husband fumed,

"We're doing it wrong." He said, echoing his mother's stance, which is that it is unnatural for our lives to revolve around entertaining a two-year-old. Whatever, I said, drive to the toy store. Our son had been placed in the NICU after his birth, and for a while it was very touching go. His thighs, the only puffins of fat left, were punctured with needles and IVs. I kept a notebook, a narrative of his condition, because I did not believe that the system, a scattering of nurses and

doctors, tending to multiple patients, would be able to keep it straight. I stood next to him, reciting the narrative, making sure they didn't miss any details. At one point, the doctor said

“they had done all they could. It's up to him now. Only at this crucial moment did they recognize his”

agency. It was winter. I looked around trying to find something that would tip the scales in favor of living. The paper cups of coffee, the linoleum tile flooring, the bouquet of spray carnations that had come questionably with a white condolences balloon. My husband had taken the balloon out of the room and was looking for somewhere to throw it away. He had been gone for 20 minutes. Outside the window, the hospital parking lot was covered in a porridge of gray snow and slush. A cluster of coats

waited at the bus station across the street. There was nothing I could convincingly point to. But I spoke to my son through the plastic. I said that from his vantage point, the world might not seem like an inviting place, but if he was willing to wait, strange spectacular things happened every day. Like his birth for one and everything leading up to it. I said that the chances of winning the lottery were extremely slim but it had happened. And the money was what made his conception possible

meant that he was supposed to be here, that he deserved to be here. So I hoped that he would stay.

“I was surprised by this line of reasoning as I spoke. But his little face closed up like an old”

fist seemed to relax at the sound of my voice. Finally, I said that if he could keep going so we

could leave this hospital, I would use the lottery winnings to make his life great. The toy store was closing early when we got there due to the extreme weather. But the clerk opened it and I managed to grab a duploset along with a mock smartphone that played musical notes and something called a pop-a-ball's push-and-pop bulldozer at the clerk's recommendation. Rushing out into the rain, I put the shopping bag into the back seat instead of the trunk which

was a mistake. Wait to open the boxes when we get home. My husband instructed our son. Don't make a mess. I chimed in, getting into the passenger seat. You can hold the toys, but don't

“open them yet. In the rear view mirror, we watched helplessly as he tore into the boxes.”

He was surprisingly strong with fast-growing nails I could barely keep up with trimming.

Yeah! He yelled waving the toy over his head like an 80s wrestler. Yeah! We're doing it wrong! My husband repeated looking straight ahead at the road. There is no right way. I might not know what the right way is, but I definitely know we're doing it wrong. Yeah, you keep saying that. Outside the window, even the parking lots of box chain stores were deserted. Look, if a kid is screaming and being disrespectful, he shouldn't get rewarded. It's as

simple as that. He'd gesture to the back seat. If he's throwing a tantrum at the library, we don't need to take him to the toy store right after it just encourages bad behavior. I glanced in the rear view mirror. Maybe those are two separate things. We went to the library and we went to the toy store. Not everything is cause and effect. That's not how it comes off to him. My husband turned into our driveway. He needs to learn

about consequences. We need to instill some kind of moral code. Okay, I said. As we pulled into the garage of our house, a three-story refurbished single-family home with a rooftop deck, dual zone heating and cooling system, and landscape bamboo courtyard. I hear what you're saying. On Monday, I received an email from my former supervisor. It read, "How are you?" Occasionally, I still get emails from her. They come unpredictably. Every few months, maybe.

It is always a brief message, often a question, or a leading statement. Sometimes it is an

inside joke we once shared. A few times it was a news link asking my thoughts about something related to insurance. In all cases, I delete the message. The thought crosses my mind that I should keep them as evidence, but evidence for what? I have to get rid of it, or I'll keep thinking about it. How are you? I deleted this, that I empty the trash folder. I did this from the comfort of my old studio, which I had snuck into again. This face was just as clean and tidy as it had been last

week. There were no dishes in this sink, no dirty cereal bowls or coffee mugs abandoned, before they rushed out the door to catch the train. The white countertops looked smooth and

“spotless. The bed was made. Who did that? Who kept their apartment that clean on a Monday morning?”

This time I felt like an intruder, but I didn't leave. This time I had brought an ice coffee in my laptop, which I set up at the desk. I plan to apply to jobs that morning, something I had been procrastinating on for weeks. In my old apartment, I updated my resume, describing my work gap as a decision to spend time at home as a new mother, without any mention of the lottery. If an employer googled me and figured out who I was, then fine. I looked at various postings

in bookmarked a few positions. Most of these were entry-level communications type jobs. None were an insurance brokerage. This was the most productive I had been in months. The longer I stayed, the less I felt like I was intruding. And when I was done, I cleaned up after myself, making sure not to leave anything behind, including trash. As I exited the building, a neighbor coming and smiled at me. I almost froze, but I smiled back. How a nice day, I said.

The next few days passed in much the same way. After I dropped off my Senate Montessori,

virtual therapy appointment from the studio. I'm Kat sitting at a friend's place. I explained to

“my therapist. That's very nice of you, she said. But is this something you wanted to do?”

Walk me through how this request played out. The previous week, my therapist had given me a chart on the four communication styles. We both agreed that I resorted to my default passive style to often, and needed to practice assertive style. My friend asked me a while back and I agreed, they live near me, so it's not a big chore. I was unprepared to make up more lies on the spot, but I tried to convey that I had not been finagled into this by my passivity. I just feed the

cat and spend time with her. She's sweet. I thought you were allergic to cats. Not like super allergic, I can be around them for a couple of hours. Then switching gears, I added, I've been using the time

here to start applying to jobs. She nodded and approval. Finally, some progress. We had recently

come to the conclusion that I should seek out gainful employment again. It was a grounding measure, a way of ordering my days, which had become increasingly slippery and meaningless. How is that going? I'm a little worried because I don't have a lot of references, and I don't want to put my former bosses name down. What do you think would happen if you asked her to be a reference? I don't know. She might feel that I owed her. I'm afraid that I trailed off. It sounded ridiculous to say that I was

afraid she might come back. Are we dealing in fears or plausibilities? I'd rather not even open that door. I said, it's why I have been applying to entry-level jobs. I'd rather just start over. What would happen if you were to approach her? I don't know. I didn't want to engage in more thought

“exercises. I think she's still angry at me. Why does she feel angry toward you?”

Because I struggle to find the words because I escaped and by escaping, I upended the order of things. She wielded her power over everyone, especially me, but suddenly I had an escape hatch out of that whole system. Lots of people quit their jobs, but it was almost by quitting. I was saying that the system, the one in which she ramed, was stupid that anyone would leave who'd given the chance. My therapist paused. How do you know she feels this way? I just know, for working with her

for all those years. I know how she thinks. You've given a lot of thought as to how she might feel toward you. Tell me how you feel toward her. She was a mean-spirited person who made my life

hell in subtle ways at first and, as time accrued, more obvious and egregious ways. But by that

“point, I was used to it and so I just took it. So you feel angry. I feel angry. I said, then added,”

but I've been very lucky. You're minimizing yourself. She jotted something down. You don't have to minimize your anger. The more space you allow yourself to take up, the more this world will accommodate you. She paused. And the less angry you will feel. I side. That line is thinking seem so American, though. If everyone gets to take up space, it would be. I search for the word. She laughed a little bit. Yeah, tell me. What do you think would happen? It would be

annoying. I wanted to say disgusting. Newsflash, my therapist said. You're an American. Leaving the studio that day, I saw that the door to the janitor's closet was open. It emitted a dim orange light in Congress with the cool white illumination of the hallway. Peeping inside, I saw a single bull dangling low on a string. It was jiggling as if someone had just

turned it on, but there was no one around. Even when I lived here, I had never seen inside the

closet, which was the size of a homie walking. There were a few shelves of cleaning sprays and bottles, some rooms and vacuum cleaners, and a floor sink where the mops were washed out. Nestled amongst these was a little cut with a wrinkled floral sheet spread over it, lilacs against a white backdrop. The McDonald's burger unwrapped from its wax paper had been left on the cut alongside some fries. When the elevator pained, I moved toward the stairway.

The next week, I was in the studio in the middle of writing an email to follow up on an application when the door opened. I turned around, racing myself. The person at the door was an

surprised. It was Mr. B, which was also surprising. I'd assumed he'd retired. Oh, hi, Mr. B. I said

“for lack of anything else to say. He looked smaller. He still wore the same thing, white t-shirts,”

yellowing around the pits tucked into belted chinos. You're not supposed to be here. He repeated. They're showing here tonight. Oh, okay. I tried to recover from how startled I felt. Are you trying to find a new tenant for this place? No, the showings are not for this unit. They're in this unit. He said, impatient. This one is not for sale. This is the sales model. Oh, really? Are we assessed the studio again? It made too much sense. The sterile tightiness, the framed stock photography,

the impersonal decor, I could have figured it out. You're lucky no one lives here. He chuckled. I did not seem to be in any trouble. He hasn't been lived in for a couple of years, so this spursed up as a sample. But I used to live here. I wondered why they would use the smallest unit as the sales model. He looked at me. He curious. Okay. Well, that was probably a mistake. I didn't know how to respond to that. I used to live here. I repeated like for six years.

Back when it was your building. Ah, the good old days. He squinted as if trying to place me, but I don't think he remembered. Why are you here now? I was going to return the keys. It wasn't exactly an answer, but I fumbled through my bag. Here, I said holding them out to him as if I had been waiting to

do this all along. I held onto the keys because I never got the deposit back. He did not move to take

them. Did you come back from the deposit then? He asked. Don't worry about it. I still held out the keys. Because if you're asking for a deposit, he continued as if he had not heard me. First of all, there might be a statute on that. I don't know. I can't say one way or the other, but you're going to have to go through management, not me. They own this place now. Do you work for a management? I don't have anyone. He said bristling before launching into a long-winded

explanation. He had an arrangement with the property firm to help maintain the building. It sounded like light janitorial tasks. He swept the front entrance. He made sure no packages were left outside. He tidied up the sales model, etc. Do you still live in the building? I love in the fair view. Do you know where that is? Yeah, that's not far from here. It's just down the block. Mr. B was

uncommonly proud. Never thought I'd end up there. I heard it's really nice. Fair view was an

expensive senior living facility, one of the last in the neighborhood that advertised hotel quality amenities. Well, I sold this building for a tidy cell. You might say. Propriety prevented him from

“disclosing the exact amount. I thought you'd be fully retired by now. And what would I do all day?”

He said suddenly and dignity. Watch TV? I bit my town. That was literally all he did when he was the landlord watched baseball in his office. He continued. There's building has been on my family for generations. I know it like the back of my hand and you can't buy that kind of knowledge. They know that. They're the ones who keep asking me back. Sharpened by his irritation. He zoomed in on me. And now I'm going to have to ask you to leave, please. I'm going, Mr. B. I had been holding

the keys out the entire time. He hadn't accepted. And I put them in my bag. It was nice to see you again. He grunted in return, neither confirming nor denied. In the hallway, the janitor's closet was open again. I didn't pee inside this time. I went down the steps to the foyer, then through the front doors and down the streets of my old neighborhood. I went past the station where I used to catch the train to go to work. And the new bus stop that accommodated an express line going directly

downtown. I hadn't even clocked the new shoes store or the fine jewelry shop. When you come into a big

“windfall, the impulse is to convert the money into material things. But I think the real trick”

is to convert money into time. I walked until I arrived back at my house. New construction that according to our agent, a cruise at a higher rate, the most properties in the city. I punched

bracingly refreshingly minty. In the four-year and living room, I negotiated the lab rent of paintings

“and sculptures, silently accruing value day by day, hour by hour. Also accruing along the hallways”

were rare first editions entombed inside closed bookcases. Titles I have never touched

let alone red. I climbed the staircase to the master's suite where I found my king-sized bed dressed with sheets the color of pistachio ice cream. Even if I don't know what to do with my time anymore, I still want it. It's mine to waste. I smoothed out the pillowcase. I got underneath the covers. I closed my eyes and went to sleep. Thank you. That was Ling Ma's story winner, read by actor Cindy Chong. I'm Meg Walitzer and I'm guessing

if you've imagined yourself winning the lottery, it was about the material things you've longed for and that you might gain. The sense of self you might lose, not so much. Maybe you've

seen the perfect long time slogan for the New York State lottery. Hey, you never know. Which in

“a way could also be the perfect slogan for what might happen to a person who wins the lottery?”

And because you never know, the deft writer Ling Ma wanted to find out. A good piece of fiction like the one we've just heard or Naomi Kritzer's story earlier in the program lets us imagine a kind of wild dramatic change while calculating the possible consequences of that change.

Projecting ourselves onto a protagonist like this can be like a rehearsal. What we do if and when it

is ever show time is up to us. I'm Meg Walitzer. Thanks for joining me for selected shorts.

“Selected shorts is produced by Jennifer Brennan and Sarah Montague. Our team includes Matthew”

Love, Drew Richardson, Mary Shimkin, Vivienne Woodward, and Magdalene Roblesky. The readings are recorded by Miles Beesmith. Our programs presented at the Getty Center in Los Angeles are recorded by Phil Richards. Our mix engineer for this episode was me a white. Our theme music is David Peterson's "That's the Deal" performed by the Dear Door of Peterson Group. Selected shorts is supported by the Dunganan Foundation. This program is also made

possible with public funds from the New York State Council on the Arts with the support of Governor Kathy Hockel and the New York State Legislature. Selected shorts is produced and distributed by Symphony Space. Hey, if you've ever wanted to do selected shorts in your own home, I have a suggestion. I have a novel coming out for kids and since kids do like to be read to, maybe you could read aloud to them from this book. I co-wrote it with my son Charlie Panic and it's one of those

scavenger hunt books with a lot of really cool clues in it. Great for ages 7 to 11. That's found sound, read it aloud, let your kid read it, let your grand kid read it, let adults read it, whatever.