Carswell's Guide to Being Lucky

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Carswell dunked the comb beneath the faucet and slicked it through his hair, tidying the back so it

was neat and pristine, and the front spike dup just right. Boots sat on the counter, watching him with

her yellow slitted eyes and purring heavily, even though it had been nearly ten minutes since he’d

stopped petting her.

“Today’s goal,” he said to the cat, he supposed, or maybe the mirror, “is eighty-four univs. Think I

can do it?”

The cat blinked, still purring. Her tail twitched around her paws and Carswell turned off the water

and set the comb beside her.

“I’ve never made that much in one lunch hour before,” he said, pul ing a skinny blue tie over his

head and cinching the knot against his neck, “but eight-four univs will put us at a total of 7,500. Which means-“ He flipped down the shirt collar, “-the bank wil upgrade my account to ‘young professional’

and increase the monthly interest by 2%. That would trim nearly sixteen weeks off my five-year plan.”

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