"Are they treating you right, Dad? You seem a bit aloof..."

  A man in his thirties sat across the cheap wooden table, a recycled good that had been bleached so many times it barely resembled wood anymore. His dad had lost all the hair he had left, and the care home didn't allow their residents to keep beards. He slowly ate the orange jello with a plastic spoon so tiny it would take him longer than the visit's allotted time to finish it. His eyes, locked in a place far away, reminded him of the day he took the decision to send him here.

  "... More than usual, anyways." He sighed, and his father's eyes turned for a second to him accusatory, with that disdainful hatred reserved for the lowliest scum on earth, the type to steal coins from blind beggars, or con the lifelong savings of workers.

  "Have you come to check me out of this place, so I can return to my home, the one I built, brick by brick?"

  "You know I can't do that, dad. Last time, I thought I had lost you for good..."

  A memory flashed before his eyes. A phone ringing in the middle of the night, and the mechanical voice of an overworked hospital receptionist asking him to come over. He filled stacks of papers after stacks of papers, and no one would tell him what happened to his dad.

  "Have you brought my granddaughter so I can see her one time before I die?" He spat dejectedly, knowing the answer.

  "Her mom wouldn't agree, she thinks you're bad influence, too dark... And honestly, dad, I agree. I'll be blunt, you tried to kill yourself."

  The old man rubbed his neck, a phantom pain coursing through him at the mention of that memory. Having lived long, he felt the right to take his life into his own hands. His mind, not as sharp as it used to be, slowly degraded and the memories of his lovely wife and the sweet boy that used to be his son decayed. He thought that given enough time, nothing would remain. It would've been better for him to join his family in the afterlife, much better than this.

  "Who gives you the right to walk in here, acting like you're better than me?" He scoffed. "Get off that high horse. You put me in here because you wanted to sell the house and move to LA because that streetwalker you call wife wants to 'be an actress.'"

  "How dare you call her that, Martin! And you think that of me, after all these years—!"

  "Bah! Don't you lie to me, you rascal. I may be locked up, but word travels fast and I'm not a fool. You've auctioned my home, did you not?"

  The young man looked down, like a little kid caught shoplifting candy, his prior indignation nowhere to be seen.

  "I don't have anything left to say. I built you a home, fed you, schooled you... And this is what I got in return. You locked me up in this... This place, and left me to die. I don't even have the luxury of doing it on my own terms anymore!"

  "Listen, dad, once the acting gig starts paying, once I get settled as a scriptwriter..."

  Martin didn't want to hear anymore. He got up from his chair and walked towards his room. The buzzing tubes cast shadows on the piercing eyes of the nurse, a burly man who hadn't smiled for years, who assessed whether he would cause any troubles.

  Martin entered his so-called room. It wasn't, of course, the rooms that they showed the family members, just a facade among many to hide the truth of what this place really was.

  A bunk bed to the right and another to the left, a small barred window and barely enough space to walk—a cell would be the closest thing to what Martin had to sleep in. Next to him, two other old people muttered to themselves, too far gone to be company. Richard, the resident that entered the care home shortly before he did, made origami out of grey toilet paper. Lifting his eyes off his work, he smiled ironically to Martin.

  "That bad, huh? To think most people here yearn for visitors, but you, one of the few with the privilege, get sour every time."

  Martin chuckled to himself. "Ha, what can I say. The director probably noticed that my son is yet to grow a pair, so he figured that letting that treacherous bastard come meet me wouldn't do any harm. Not that I would even think of sharing what's really going on..."

  "Even today? You know what day it is, right?" Richard looked at him quizzically. "It's not like you have much to lose anyways."

  "They would take my card, or rig it somehow. I'd forfeit the game."

  "Heh. Game. To think I used to love bingo nights..."

  At the utterance of those words the residents next to them started screaming and shouting "33! 22! 43! 89! Bingo, bingo!" Richard sighed. "I'm sorry, shouldn't have said anything. No, Evelyn, please don't do that..."

  An old woman cowered in the corner of the room, covering her head with her arms. She had long forgotten her name, but she didn't forget what they'd done to her. The bruises on her body were too many to count, poorly hidden beneath the loose linen dress. "Please... I have a row, believe me... please don't take me," she cried softly. Richard turned his attention back to the paper, as he knew that eventually she'd exhaust herself and fall into slumber.

  "What you doing?" Martin asked. Richard always did strange stuff, as he'd been a gambler long before arriving at this place. In fact, he had one night confided that his family had put him here because that way they could do a legal loophole around the debts he had acquired, but he didn't know how they'd dealt with the loan sharks. They never visited, so he couldn't know.

  "I have a winning strategy." He said confidently. Martin frowned.

  "What, for bingo?"

  "Shh!"

  "Sorry, for tonight's game? How would that even work?" Martin was a home person, he worked hard and came back to his family. He had heard of gambling strategies for poker, roulette and even blackjack, but wasn't bingo pure luck?

  "I've been running simulations." Richard pointed at his head. "At first, I thought that because there's 75 numbers, then the ones in the middle are more likely to be drawn, right? Like a coin pusher!"

  Martin frowned. A what?

  "Anyway! This turns out to be false. In my simulation, cluster numbers are unlikely to be drawn." He excitedly explained. "Meaning, it's far more likely to get 35, 67, 23 than to get 35, 36, 37. It's pretty obvious once you say it, isn't it? Don't worry, you're my friend, you can use the trick too."

  "Heh, if only that worked, you old coot. Did you forget that they don't let us choose cards?" Richard laughed and pointed inside his grey gown, probably made out of the same stuff they made toilet paper. Martin widened his eyes and whispered softly:

  "Strawberry jello? Where'd you get that!?"

  "Hey, an old gambler needs a couple aces up his sleeves, right? I'll just trade the jello and my card for one with more favorable odds."

  His voice grew softer at the end of the sentence, and his face darkened.

  "Odds, that's what it's all about, isn't it? Numbers, chances. Some have better chances, some have better luck. Hey, Martin. If you get the Lotto... Will you tell my children that I'm sorry?"

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  "Of course, old man. Of course."

  They shared stories for the rest of the afternoon, and the dreadful feeling crept into their crackled skin. The sunlight dimmed and turned red for a moment before total obscurity enveloped the place. Then, the burly nurse showed up. Martin got to his feet, he always thought that the executioner would be dressed in black clothes, but instead, the cheap blue scrubs seemed to be a manner of insult.

  "Hey." Martin said to the man as he walked down the hallway along with his bunk buddies. Evelyn had to be dragged off, as she passed out due to stress. "What's that thing even made of? It looks so cheap."

  "..." The man didn't answer, choosing foreboding silence, still, uncaring.

  "I can see through it, it's so thin. And are those square patterns even supposed to be there? Not cotton for sure. Not polyester, obviously. Paper, perhaps?"

  The man hurled a fist into Martin's face, knocking him off his feet.

  "You a cloth designer now? Shut up and keep moving." The raspy voice with marked ghetto accent echoed through Martin's ringing ears as he was pulled onto his feet.

  'Is this guy even a real nurse...?' he thought to himself.

  As he walked into the visitation room, he squinted his eyes to the bright lights and soft blues music. On the tables, the residents leaned over their cards, and far on top of the stage a man in a suit stood next to a bingo rolling machine. The mood appeared light on the surface, some residents laughed, some even danced, but an odor seemed to permeate beneath the scenes. A woman in glasses, not much younger than he was, handed him a five-by-five grid card, and pointed him to a seat.

  "Seems like we're neighbors, eh, Martin?" Richard sat brusquely on his seat and combed his hair through his hands, appearing relaxed. He then began peeking onto others' cards, thinking of enacting his strategy. For bingo cards, the design was indeed flashy, each column had an assigned color and precious rock, and from the glittery sides numerous hundred dollar bills fell. A bunny in the corner said "Bingo, today's your lucky day!" in rainbow letters.

  "Look at these shit numbers, Martin. Lots of single digits, lots of consecutive numbers." Richard showed him his own card, where the winking bunny claimed "let's get rich together!" Martin nodded, it was indeed the opposite of what Richard wanted. Then, he looked at his own card, and the ones of the other four on the table. The best one for

  Richard was his own card. Richard looked at him intently.

  Martin thought that he'd never had a real friend before, one to help him unconditionally. When he first found out about the rules of the care home, he thought he was a goner, that at the very least he'd be beat up every weekend. A freshman, who knew nothing about people, deceit, reading faces or counting numbers. He remembered the smirking director handing him two cards while playing blackjack when he was on his last chips, getting a jack and a six. A bold statement said on the table, "croupier stands at sixteen" and he felt compelled to do the same, when a whispering voice told him from behind "double down, new guy!"

  "What?"

  "Double down!"

  He said the words, not knowing what they meant, and the director pointed at the very last chip he had in reserve. Martin felt he had been tricked, but pushed the coin anyways. It was too late to back down. The director handed him a new card, a four. Twenty. He smiled, and rested soundly that night. His adversary, having lost everything due to standing on eighteen, was never seen again, and the bottom twenty residents were beaten black and blue.

  But that was then, and this was now. The stakes were higher than in other games, you either got a row or you didn't, and since it was very likely to get at least one row, the penalty for not being lucky was death. No one said it, but everyone knew.

  Richard raised his eyebrows, and reached into his gown for the strawberry jello. Martin bit his lip, selling his life for a jello would be the height of stupidity. But... Selling it for his friend's life? He could do that.

  Shaking his head, Richard paled. But then, Martin swapped the cards when the nurses got distracted by Evelyn coming to her senses, screaming and kicking. Richard smiled and rubbed his hands, thinking of the premium he would get out of the card.

  The director clapped his hands.

  "Alright, everybody! We're starting shortly, so make sure you have your lucky charms and your cards, okay? Good." He remembered wondering why. Why would someone do this? Treating people's lives like gambling chips, why not just kill the one that no one cared about, or the sickest? But in that wicked smile the reason was more than clear. "And cheer up! Today's bonus, those who get four rows... Won't be getting extra food, nor bigger rooms, none of those petty things... those who win... Will walk free! That's right, big bets, big returns!" Pure sadism, that's why. He rubbed his fingers, and the residents looked at each other confused. Of course the director could just let the door open and claim they'd escaped, but why? Was there some other layer to the proposal, was there a policeman following to return them the day after? Was the game rigged, so none managed to get four rows? These thoughts were harbored in everyone's mind, narrowing eyes suspiciously.

  The lights dimmed, and the machine started rolling. The blues were turned off and instead, an upbeat music resounded through the room.

  "55! 32! 70!" Richard smiled and circled numbers on his card, rounding his lips and silently spelling "I got this."

  "34! 23! 75!" The numbers kept rolling, and the total draft ball number dwindled. Richard's card was slowly being filled, increasing his bingo chances every time. Meanwhile, his own card remained empty. He sighed.

  "30! 46! 37!" As the total draft number lowered to 20, a woman yelled "Bingo, bingo!" Claps were heard through the room, but this was no ordinary bingo. Now, numbers kept rolling until the draft pool reached zero. 15 remaining, more joined the chorus of bingo. Richard's luck seemed to have run out, and no more numbers were added to his card.

  "Come on, just give me a 27, you bastard..." In the middle of his card, a 27 blocked his chance of completing a cross bingo, and two more rows were almost completed. He just needed a bit more luck. 10 numbers remaining, Richard started touching the table, rubbing his left toe, and doing all sorts of strange lucky rituals.

  In Martin's card, only one number was marked. He was resigned to his fate, when suddenly...

  "1! 3! 2!" Martin widened his eyes. What are the odds! He thought while marking his card.

  "4! 74! 73!"

  "Bingo, bingo!" Yelled the residents. Only four numbers remained. Richard gritted his teeth and seemed ready to cut off the rabbit's foot with his bare teeth, if only to get that inch of luck he needed. Only Richard and him hadn't scored at least one row. The director seemed not to care. Would he really spare everyone if they all scored at least one row?

  "5!" One number was enough to complete not one, but two rows. He was saved! Martin stood up and yelled, "Bingo! Bingo..." His joy suddenly dropped down as he saw Richard with his hands interlocked behind his skull. A strand of hair lay on the floor, as he had ripped it off in frustration.

  "12! 14! 68!" Another completed row for Martin. He didn't scream in joy, because his friend was on thin ice, but still, one last ball, one chance. With all the numbers that had been called, surely the odds of being a 27 or a helpful number were pretty high?

  "45! That's it, folks! No more numbers."

  45 was the number in the exact middle of Martin's card, he completed two more rows in an X shape. Would the director really let him go? He slowly turned to Richard, who leaned on the back of the chair, eating his strawberry jello. The only proof left of the nervous wreck he'd become was a new bald patch on his head. Did that mean...?

  Martin leaned over his friend's card, but nothing had been marked. Zero rows.

  "I'm sorry, Richard. I really thought you had it, maybe if we switch now..."

  As if reading his intentions, the director suddenly spoke.

  "Because of recent problems with cheaters, and I'm not pointing fingers here, security cameras have been installed, monitored all the while the numbers rolled. So, no lying!" He shook his finger playfully.

  "Ah, that bastard..." Richard sighed. "So, this is how it ends, eh? Richard, star of the night, richy Richard, dies eating jello at a bloody horror care home..."

  "I wish it was different."

  "Don't you dare feel sorry for me, you naive old man!" Richard spat out poison. "You think I'm your friend or something? Ha! How'd you even reach old age, you fool?"

  "Wha-?"

  "You were my insurance bet. I knew that if I gave you a few tips here and there, I could use you as a meat shield. I traded you that card fully intending for you to lose and die. I bet on that, and I lost."

  "..."

  "I'm not your friend, I'm just a scumbag that sold his family for gambling money, and I would've sold you too if I could." He finished eating and tossed the plastic away. "So, don't you dare feel sorry for me, got it?"

  The director laughed to himself.

  "What a funny couple, you two. It's a shame things have come like this, but, oh well, I'm a man of my word."

  The nurses grabbed Martin and dragged him outside, to the cold of the night, and through the glass he saw them taking Richard to the back.

  He walked down the street, feeling lost, as if he had Alzheimer's and had escaped home. He was fully prepared to die, the rope broke and suddenly he was trapped in a personal hell where he was humiliated and threatened daily. Now, he was fully prepared to die again, and he was released as if nothing had happened.

  "It's... Surreal." A young couple approached.

  "Are you lost, sir? Where are you going?"

  'Where indeed.' He scoured his mind, searching for his last happy memory. It wasn't his wedding, nor the birth of his son. An image, yonder in his mind, came crystal clear. He remembered the day his would-be wife told him that she was leaving to Paris, where she had found better opportunities. He then begged on his knees for her to stay, and just before she left the dock and boarded the boat, he yelled still on his knees "Please, marry me! I'll marry you, so, please stay!"

  He chuckled at his memory. In his happiest moment, he was prostrate with his face reddened and full of tears and snot.

  'Perhaps it's my time to board that boat.'

  "I'm going to the port, to Sacramento."

  "Wow, you're quite far, old man!"

  He raised his weary eyes to the sky, muttering softly "Not really. Not really..."