The sun is high in the sky, casting warm rays over the village square as you stand among your neighbors, clutching a small, blank piece of paper. The old, splintered black box sits on a makeshift podium at the center, its chipped paint and ancient design a grim reminder of countless lotteries past. Mr. Summers, cheerful as ever, calls out family names one by one.

Your heart pounds as he approaches your household, his hand hovering over the box to draw the slip. You glance around at the familiar faces—friends, family, acquaintances—all with the same anxious, forced smiles. The whispers grow quieter as your turn approaches.

When your name is called, you step forward, feeling the weight of dozens of eyes on you. The box feels colder than it should as you reach inside and pull out a slip. Do you dare to look? Or will you wait until everyone has drawn?

As the final name echoes through the square, the crowd collectively holds its breath. You unfold your paper. What do you see?