The one challenge with her don’t-get-involved rule was that she couldn’t tell if somebody deserved their misfortune. After giving the quandary thought, she had decided simply to guess who’d been naughty or nice. Thinking of it as similar to the clichéd Christmas legend made the diary’s acts seem less malevolent.

Thanks to the pavement preacher, she’d hit upon the notion to use people who life had already kicked in the teeth, the populace of vagrants who lived on the sidewalks. She told herself her good deed was in helping them escape a terrible life and rid the world of people who didn’t contribute. They had no future, and she rescued them as well as delivering a happy last few hours or days with a large donation.

Thanks to their gifts of luck, Nem thrived in her job and Bountiful Books’ business increased in the weeks after she began her employment.

She loved the place and her work, just as she predicted. Several others worked in the store; Suzi, the assistant manager, and Cheryl were kind and friendly to her. When you love books, you never run out of conversation. Her fear of difficult customers disappeared because fate’s blessings were on her side. Always.

She was no longer concerned there may be a disagreement with anyone. Her continued supply of luck took care of that. Shame she didn’t think of using the diary during her marriage. Still, she harbored no regrets because after everything that happened with Greg, she was able to live in freedom to choose her future.

Within a few weeks, Diane promoted her to assistant manager. Suzi’s child suddenly grew ill with a disease which the doctors were unable to diagnose. With hospital stays and tests, she couldn’t cope, and until her son recovered, she couldn’t continue in her role.

“I hope his recovery will be swift,” Nem had told her, knowing it wouldn’t.

She hadn’t yet dared expand her good fortune to include money. Though she’d helped Peg and Ray those years ago, she imagined winning the lottery would bring undue attention. She didn’t need that or the questions about how her adoptive parents and she could be so lucky. Lightning striking twice was news and she didn’t want to be news.

Besides, everything she needed for happiness was hers for the moment. A comfortable apartment, an enjoyable job, a friend with pink hair (who’d have thought?) and a sense of belonging somewhere. Happy days.

Until that Friday. For the six months she’d worked at the store, Diane had invited her for a meal or a drink or a movie every Friday on their payday.

“Pizza tonight?” she said this time. “Red wine. A discussion on why Stephen King writes five hundred adjectives too many on each page. Then maybe hit a karaoke bar if we’ve drunk enough. Come on Nem. You need to let your hair down—in fact mess it up honey—and meet someone.”

“I’ve got a Skype call with my mom. But thanks for asking.”