That night, they didn't celebrate with champagne. They sat on the floor of their cramped one-bedroom rental, the brochure spread between them. Rohan was crying. Anita was not. She was doing what she did best: planning.

She scanned down. Serial Nos. 1 through 10. Nothing. 11 to 20. Nothing. Her heart, which she’d sworn was made of granite, began a slow, painful tap against her ribs. She reached Serial No. 37.

Anita looked back at the list on her phone. For the first time in her life, she saw that luck wasn't a lottery ticket. It was a hinge. It swung open a door, but you still had to walk through, build the rooms, and furnish them with your own sweat.