Danny’s Journal

The Lottery of Empathy – Post 4: Danny’s Journal

By Tina Winterlik aka Zipolita

Day 17

Okay. This was a mistake.

Who the hell volunteers to be poor? For a year? For a *chance* at a payout?

Me, apparently. Genius that I am. Thought I could outsmart the system because I’ve seen the system. Drove a taxi 20 years, day and night. Learned how to spot a drunk, a junkie, a liar. Figured that gave me an edge.

Turns out there’s no “edge” when you haven’t eaten in two days and your socks are wet for the third time this week.

I miss my place. It was small, sure, but clean. Had plants, nice sheets. Knew the neighbor’s cat. I even had a couch. You don’t realize how much a couch means until you haven’t seen one in two weeks.

I miss coffee that doesn’t taste like burnt boot water.

I miss my son.

He’s grown now, doing alright. We got through high school together. His mom couldn’t handle him after she remarried, so he stayed with me. I used what my mother left me—wasn’t much, but enough—to get us through those years. Rent, food, a secondhand laptop. I did right by him.

He doesn’t know I’m in this. I didn’t tell anyone.

I don’t know if I’m ashamed. Or just tired.

Every day, I see someone I think I know. Can’t tell if that’s Shannon near the shelter. Or if it’s just my mind playing tricks. I thought I saw Riley at the café the other day. She looked soaked. Hollow. But she didn’t say anything, and neither did I.

I can’t believe they’re in this too. Can’t believe I’m in this.

But then that damn voice in my head starts again. The one that plays the lotto. The one that says, “What if?”

I bet they want us to break. See what happens when the mask slips. Some kind of social experiment run by weirdos with money and guilt.

My friend—he’s Indigenous. Raised Catholic. Still prays. We used to argue about that. I told him there’s only one God. He told me, “Creator isn’t separate, Danny. You’re just not listening.”

Maybe I wasn’t. Maybe I’m still not.

I’m losing teeth now. One cracked last night. Cold air hits the nerve like punishment. I can’t afford to fix it. I don’t even know if I’m allowed to fix it.

But I haven’t quit. Not yet.

Because maybe—just maybe—this stupid gamble pays off.

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