He lived a contented, prosperous life. He had those little good fortunes we all have, but none of the little bad fortunes. he sometimes went on vacation just when the weather turned perfect, but never backed over his cell phone. He caught mild colds just when there was a lull at work and he got over them drowsing by his fire.

His only real vice was gambling. At which he always lost. But he did it in a moderate, occasional, cheerful way.

***

The gambler became gloomier and gloomier.

He had a little crowd watching him. He seemed to be on a hot streak tonight. Every time he put a chip on 11, there the ball rolled.

He put in all his chips. Sweat on his brow.

11.

He let it ride; his voice was a croak.

11.

He was ghastly pale. He trembled.

11.

He passed out.

***

“Hey, buddy, wake up. Excitement got to you, huh?’

The man sat up slowly.

‘No,” he said. His voice was bitter. “11 is my unlucky number. I come here to purge all my bad luck.’