Chapter 1 — Thirty Billion Under a Tin Roof

Ha did not pick up the wallet out of curiosity.

She opened the sales book before touching her wallet, noting the time, wind direction and the sound of the radio playing across the street. Ha knows that a small thing can make people misremember the entire evening; she wanted to turn the rainy night into indisputable lines.

Duy called from the market and reported that the dealer's truck was parked behind the row of goods but the driver did not come down to buy anything. Ha asked why he didn't say it right away. Duy admitted that he recognized the driver as Tan, the employee who had delivered tickets to Vinh, and was afraid that she would think he was causing trouble again.

Ha called Tan's number. One ring, two rings, then there was the sound of the phone opening but no one spoke. She clearly heard the radio reading the results over and over again, then there was a loud crash like a heavy object falling.

“Tan, where are you?”

A hoarse voice replied: “Don't let them open the envelope.”

The call ended. Ha sent the transcript to the investigator, instructing Duy not to post anything online. She knew the small market would wake up with the same story, but no one knew that story could make one family lose their home or save seven families from debt.

Rain poured across the market at nearly nine o'clock in the evening, rolling unsold tickets into the gutter. She just wanted to pull the tarp down before the wind blew the roof off. The brown leather purse was stuck under the table leg, sliding out when she kicked a box of wet tickets aside.

Inside was an identification card with the name Nguyen Thi Nguyet, a medicine receipt and a lottery ticket so crumpled that only the first six numbers could be read.

Ha recognized the series of numbers as soon as the radio of the bar across the street read the results of the special prize.

The first six numbers match.

She couldn't hear the last number because of the thunder. Ha held the ticket close to the light bulb, using a dry towel to absorb every drop of water. The ink spreads into a black streak in the right corner. Below the black streak can be the number 7, 1 or a stroke of the number 4.

Her phone vibrated. Duy, her younger brother, texted: "Are you closed yet? Someone is asking to buy a house."

Ha did not answer. She called Ms. Nguyet at the number listed on the medicine receipt. No one picked up the phone. Called a second time, a strange male voice was heard and then stopped.

Ha knows Mrs. Nguyet. She bought one sheet every day, always choosing the last row in the stack and paying with change. She never bought it for herself; She said if she won, she would save money to fix the roof for her daughter.

Around six o'clock, she stood at the kiosk. She took the ticket, looked at the numbers and asked Ha if she believed in luck.

"I believe in keeping your tickets more carefully," Ha said.

Ms. Nguyet smiled and stuffed the ticket into her brown wallet.

Ha called Mai, her daughter. Mai said her mother hasn't come home yet. The road is flooded, motorbikes stall on the bridge. An hour later, a text message from an unknown number reported that Ms. Nguyet had had an accident on the district road.

Ha stood under the corrugated iron roof, listening to the rain hitting the billboard. If the ticket really wins, its value is greater than all her family's debts combined. But the ticket was in her hand, without the buyer's name, and Ms. Nguyet died before confirming the final number.

She put the wallet in a sealed bag, took a photo of the situation and called the commune police. The person on duty asked her if she was sure she wanted to make a report right away.

"If I leave it overnight, someone will tell me to change the ticket."

Two officers arrived half an hour later. They checked the ID card, wrote down the six visible numbers and sealed the ticket in an envelope. Before signing, Ha requested to clearly state that the right corner was wet and the last number was unknown.

An official said: "If it's really a special prize, you could be the one hand over, but the right to receive remains to be verified."

Ha knows that. She still signed.

That night, Duy came home with a thin raincoat. He was only seventeen, worked as a warehouse assistant at the market, and always thought that with just a little money, everything could be fixed.

"Do you keep the winning ticket?" Duy asked.

Ha looked up. "Who said you?"

"The whole market knows. Someone told Ms. Nguyet to buy the correct number."

"No one knows the last number."

Duy pulled his chair closer. "If you have a ticket, we can pay off the house debt. Mom doesn't have to go to a private hospital anymore."

"It's not my money."

"But she's dead. Ms. Mai may not know where the ticket is."

Ha lightly slapped the table, not me. "Don't talk as if the dead have no rights."

Duy remained silent, his eyes red from embarrassment. Ha understands that he is not bad; he just lived too long in a house where the bank sent him a debt reminder.

Near midnight, the kiosk's camera automatically sent a notification of lost connection. Open the application. The recording from 8:41 p.m. to 8:58 p.m. was deleted, right around the time she pulled the tarp and found the wallet.

She called the technician. He said the camera was struck by lightning, but the memory only lasted seventeen minutes.

Ha took the book to record the goods and check the ticket sales time. Before Ms. Nguyet left, a man in a gray coat stood next to the counter, asking to buy the last batch. Ha misses him because he doesn't look at her face; He just looked at the wallet in Ms. Nguyet's hand.

The phone vibrates again. A text message without a number arrived: "That ticket is not Ms. Nguyet's. Don't leave it to Mai."

Ha looked at the sealed envelope on the table. Inside were still just six numbers and a streak of black ink.

Outside the corrugated iron roof, the rain has stopped. But she knew that from this moment on, people would start hunting for a piece of paper smaller than the palm of their hand.

At five o'clock in the morning, the camera technician arrived at the kiosk. He was carrying a bag of tools and the annoyed expression of someone who was woken up in the middle of the night.

“Lightning corrupts memory,” he said.

Lower the thread into the power box. "If lightning strikes, why are street cameras still recording?"

He said it was a different kind. Ha gave the police report, asking him to write down the condition of the device before removing it. The technician looked at the sealed envelope and asked if she really wanted to make a big deal out of it.

"I just want your signature on what you do."

He reluctantly signed. When removing the hard drive, Ha saw one end of the cable that was newer than the rest, connected to the Vinh dealer's wifi transmitter. The technician said it was a remote support device, but Ha was never informed.

She took a photo of the serial number. The technician grabbed her hand, causing the phone to fall to the floor.

Ha didn't pick it up right away. She looked at him and said very softly: "Don't touch my things again."

The neighbor heard the sound and walked over. The technician collected the tools and said he would notify Vinh if she hindered the repair. Ha let him go, then called the investigator to make an additional record.

In the slot under the table, Duy found a piece of tape with gray fabric attached. The color of the fabric is the same as the shirt of the person standing next to Ms. Nguyet in the camera before the picture disappears.

Ha put the piece of cloth in the evidence bag. She no longer thought she was just holding a ticket for the right person. She is holding a chain of traces that each person wants to cut off at the part that benefits them.