“I would?”
“Mm-hmm.”
We lapse into silence. Another sip of coffee.
“Soooo…are you gonna tell me?” I ask.
He laughs. “I like you, kid. Straight to business. I can appreciate that.”
“Thanks, I guess?”
He opens his briefcase and pulls out a small stack of papers.
“So here’s the deal,” he says. “If you hadn’t missed my TV debut, you would’ve seen me on the news holding a giant check for one hundred and six million buckaroos.”
I stop breathing.
“A little over a month ago, someone came to my office with that lost lotto ticket you were looking for. Long story short, said person created a pair of trusts and donated the ticket to fund them,” he continues.
“The grantor has asked to remain anonymous, but Dover Financial was appointed trustee, and you, Rico Danger, were named one of the beneficiaries. In layman’s terms, that means I manage the trust, but the money gets paid to you.”
Still not breathing. Can’t.
“According to the terms, at no point during the next thirty years will you have any control over your flow of income. The deed specifies that the Georgia Lottery will pay taxed and annuitized funds directly to the trust, and those monies will be distributed as follows: a fixed amount will be paid into an account of your choosing for immediate access on the first of each month. A portion has been allotted to cover outstanding medical debt acquired by a Jaxon Daniel Danger, and the rest has been split three ways: there’s a 529 college savings plan with this same Jaxon Daniel Danger listed as beneficiary, a second 529 with you, Rico Reneé Danger, listed as beneficiary, and a high-interest savings account that you’ll have access to on your forty-eighth birthday.”
Cannot. Breathe.
“The 529s can be used solely to cover college or university tuition costs. Use of the monthly funds will be at your discretion, but as the assigned advisor for the trust itself, I am available to discuss any options you’d be interested in exploring: investments, charitable giving, major purchases, I’m your guy.” He winks.
Do I pass out now?
“Should you choose to decline the monthly payments entirely, those monies will be shifted into the savings account,” he says. “Was all of that clear?”
“Umm…sort of?”
He chuckles. “What part didn’t you understand?”
Any of it? “So the medical bills—”
“Covered.”
“And taxes…?”
“Taken care of. All I need is a signature and an account number for the immediate-access payments.”
He flips to a signature page and lays a pen beside it. “Please read through the documentation before you sign.”
I look at the papers.
Pick them up and try to read them.
They blur out of focus.
Eyes shift to the pen.
His face.
I can’t take this money.
The papers.
From the sound of it, though, I also can’t not take this money.
His face.
I have to take this money.
The pen.
I didn’t earn this money.
The papers.
We really need this money.
How much is it even gonna be per month? And what do I do with it for real? Give it to Mama? Put an apartment in my name? I am eighteen now….
Medical bills were taken care of, sounds like. But there are other bills. Gotta get some solid health insurance. Savings is already covered….But what about an emergency fund? Mr. Dover mentioned investments and charitable giving as well….
The papers.
His face.
The papers.
The pen.
The server sets a plate of hot shrimp and grits down in front of me.
“Go ahead and eat,” he says.
I exhale.
The first “immediate-access” payment hits my account six days later: $8,333.33.
Which makes the whole thing real.
I buy Mama—who mysteriously wound up with a job at Macklin—a laptop, and she meets with Mr. Dover to learn how to use the budgeting software he *advised* me to buy. (They hit it off a little more than I’m expressly comfortable with, but what can I do?)
Then I transfer most of the monthly payout to her account. I do set a chunk aside for one particular dream (a girl’s gotta do somethin’ for herself every once in a while), and the rest goes to a charity that helps needy families with unexpected medical expenses.
This is my plan for every month.
As soon as I’m awake and showered on day seven, I pull on the cute sundress and sandals Mama got me for my birthday. Once dressed, I run out to the truck I got permission to borrow. And then I head out, surprising myself by remembering the way to a place I’ve only ever visited once before.
The truck’s been leaking oil (which Mama can now afford to get fixed!—and now that I don’t have to help with rent and bills, I can save my income and eventually get myself a car too), so I park at the edge of the driveway and walk up to the access control panel outside the gate. My hands are sweating so much, my finger totally slips off the Call button.
A woman answers. “May I help you?”
“Oh. Umm…This is the Macklin residence, right?”
“Yes.”
Whew!
“This is Rico Danger. I’m at the gate.”
“Okay…”
Panic. Who am I even talking to?
“Is Zan—Alexander, I mean, home?”
“He doesn’t live here” comes through the little speaker.
My face falls. “But you just said this is the Macklin residence.”
“Yes.”
“How does Zan not live here?”
“He moved away.”
“Moved away?”
“He has his own house now.”
Which of course makes sense—Mr. Dover did let it “slip” that only half the total value of the lotto ticket would flow into the trust part with my name on it. He wasn’t allowed to disclose the name of the beneficiary for the other trust, but come on.
The fact that he’s not where I thought he’d be makes me feel like I’m falling, though. And not in a good way. “Do you have an address?” I ask.