He wasn’t surprised when Ms. Rosalind fired him from Newell Bike and Go. For months, his work had been shoddy, ever since he had discovered his true vocation.

Blessed be, he received his miracles these days in the merciful arms of Harrah’s Casino. By the time the slots played out last night, at three in the morning, his two hundred dollars in quarters had been multiplied by the Lord into eighteen thousand dollars.

“Hi, Ms. Abbott.” Tom smiled shyly at the pretty teacher trying to slip out the side door. She’d been the one customer he hadn’t neglected. Every two weeks, like clockwork, she brought in her bicycle for service. He rushed to the door and grabbed her arm. “Ms. Abbott!”

“Mr. Farnen.” After a brief hesitation, she came inside. Coming to church had been a risk, but under the circumstances, she had decided to chance it. She’d arrived late and slunk into the last pew. No speaking to anyone beyond a cursory nod. No chats with the minister. She slipped her collection money into the plate and planned to sneak out before anyone noticed. Her first thought was to be rude, to pretend she hadn’t heard him.

“Haven’t seen you around the shop lately, Ms. Abbott. Your bike is due for a tire check.”

Glancing around her, Erin said quickly, “I haven’t ridden much this week. I think it will be safe for a few days.” She tried to free her arm discreetly. “I’ll stop by in a few weeks.”

Tom wiped his damp brow, the bushy red eyebrows glistening with sweat. She always made him sweat. “Can’t be too careful in this heat. Tires could blow out on you.”

Desperate to escape, not sure if anyone watched them, Erin bobbed her head in agreement. “I’ll be careful, Mr. Farnen.” She pried her arm loose and shot out the door. Tom didn’t take offense at her running away. A teacher had to watch who she associated with. Personally, he had a reputation for gathering sin unto himself like a brothel. Just last year, he’d confessed his fondness for Jim Beam and his cousin Jose Cuervo, a fondness that knew no bounds. The pastor had counseled him to helpful sobriety. Of course, when Tom tested himself in the bar of Harrah’s last October, he’d resisted drink in favor of the swirling lights and siren sound of the slots.

If he told the pastor his theory, of God’s bounty found not in the drudgery of fixing bikes but instead in the soothing darkness of Harrah’s, would the pastor chastise him for the sin of gambling? Perhaps. So, to allay his conscience, he’d written out a check for 10 percent of his winnings.