Sheldon was quiet for a long moment. The ceiling fan clicked. Somewhere in the front parlor, a man laughed at a slot machine.

“It is now. The . See, in gambling—and in life—you can make the perfect bet. The math can be flawless. The odds can be 99 to 1 in your favor. And you know what happens?”

Meemaw took a long drag. “Let me guess. He turned purple and told you to go find your mother.”

Sheldon nodded, his eyes glistening. “He said I didn’t understand football. But I do understand probability. And probability says he lost because he didn’t listen to me. Which means it’s my fault for not explaining it clearly enough before the play.”

“I know,” she said. “And you made the right call folding your pair of fives. Statistically, that was the correct play. But you still lost the hand because I got lucky. Does that make you stupid?”