“FATHER, IT’S THE SAME every year!” Gloria McMillan whines in her most intimidating voice.
“Now, Mrs. McMillan,” I say, “the winner of the raffle is drawn at random from a fishtank. The ticket stubs are all in there, and whoever’s tasked with announcing the winner just takes whichever one they grab.”
“I have been going to that Christmas in July Bazaar for forty years, best I can figure,” she says, shaking a bony finger at me. “Every year I buy ten raffle tickets. Every year for forty years, nothing. Seems the prize goes to one of the Ladies of Charity’s favorites. I’m telling you, Father, it’s rigged!”
“Mrs. McMillan,” I try to reassure her, “it’s not rigged.”
“Then how do you explain that of the four hundred tickets I bought, there was not one winner? I should have won something in al
