Our Last Little Fun

By Erin Sroka

I rang the bell at my neighborhood sweepstakes on a Monday morning in September. I was let in, and the desk worker, Vivian, left the game she was playing to program my machine. It was 10 a.m., and I handed her $20. Vivian looked tired, then and all the time. Her eyes were red and sleepy, and she moved slowly, like her body was hard to carry around. I heard both sweetness and insincerity in her voice when she asked me how I was doing. Continue reading Our Last Little Fun