He was sixty-six, retired out of HVAC in Mobile, and at 4:15 on a Thursday at the Beau Rivage he laid one hand flat on his stomach and knew. He later described it as a warmth, low down, unmistakable. He pushed four hundred dollars in on a hand he had not yet looked at, because looking would have been an insult to the feeling.

The feeling has previously been wrong about a pontoon boat, a Silverado financed at fourteen percent, and a woman named Carol, and it has never once presented itself with less confidence for the record. His daughter calls on Sundays and asks how he is doing. He tells her he has a good feeling about this year, and he is not lying to her.