Ending in 7

Sara bent down to pick up the slip of paper she had just spotted on the ground. She walked this way at least twice a day and knew perfectly well it was a pedestrian street. However, curiosity led her to look both ways for motorized offenders. To the left, nothing. To the right—as if she were in London—even less so.

With the street clear, Sara picked up the rectangular slip on which several numbers stood out. It was a Christmas Lottery ticket. 23327. It seemed like the perfect combination: a palindrome to start and her favorite number to finish. Like someone stealing from the poor, Sara looked around in all directions before nervously tucking the paper into her trouser pocket. There was no one around, least of all the fool who had lost the ticket in the middle of the street. She didn't know why, but she had automatically ruled out it being a woman.

Sara was a provincial journalist and had covered dozens of Christmas Lotteries. She knew all the tricks, including the one she had just gotten herself into. She went straight to the nearest police station to report what had happened. "Yes, miss," Officer Javier Palomo—or so his name tag read—told her before taking down her details: full name, address, an email, and a mobile number. It crossed her mind to respond with a reciprocal "yes, sir," but she was having a bit of a rough day and didn't want to ruin it further.

"That's the thing," Palomo began to explain. "This is misappropriation of property, plain and simple. If someone comes in to report the ticket lost, you must return it and serve the penalty. In reality, it's as if you had stolen it." By the time the officer started telling her that the theoretical victim—he also assumed it was a man—would have to prove it was his ticket, serial number and all, Sara had stopped listening. She already knew it by heart. The officer's words, full of ordinances, laws, and alleged crimes, weren't enough to distract her from the important thing: the policeman's eyes, more attractive than handsome, his lips, and that chest that almost seemed to burst out of his freshly ironed shirt.

Sara would have sworn that Inspector Palomo had looked at hers as well. Fantasies, she thought.   

She could have left the ticket there as what it really was—just another lost object—but it was the first time in her 35 years of life that she found herself on the edge of the law, and the thrill made her take it home.

There were three days left until the draw, and the initial uncertainty gave way to a truly unbearable nervousness. She even started wishing she wouldn't win. Sara hardly slept a wink during the three nights leading up to the event. Her recurring nightmare involved a Black child singing her number off-key and a Chinese girl responding with "four million euros" sung in that peculiar way.

The day arrived, and Sara, who had finally managed to get December 22nd off work, turned on the television half an hour before the draw began. At first, she started jotting down every number the kids sang out, but naturally, she ran out of physical space to continue. As the fifth board began, there they were: Neymar Jesús, charcoal-black, and Amapola, from the local Wang family. Seized by fear, she decided to turn off the TV and wait, curled up in a ball on the sofa.

At 12:43, a notification popped up on her phone. The draw was over. She checked no less than ten times: 23327 hadn't won a prize. Not even a measly refund of the stake. She finally breathed easy for the first time in four days. How good it feels to be innocent again, she thought.

Three days later, a call came from an incredibly long number. "Sara Izquierdo, please?" "Yes, this is she," she replied, already picturing herself entering prison in handcuffs. "Javier Palomo here." That same night, she was toasting her good luck with the policeman at her local bar.