Amara sat cross-legged on the mat, folding each slip of paper the same way — square, anonymous. Some had names, some numbers, some only marks; all went into the bowl. It didn’t matter how you entered — once folded, each slip was equal. Above the grocery shop, two dozen people sat on plastic stools, waiting. A single bulb buzzed overhead, shutters drawn tight. Everyone knew what the lottery funded: teachers on strike, banned papers, rice for prisoners’ families. Hope was dressed as luck. Ko Th...
