Marlene pops up from underneath the table, holding the key she found under Cathy's chair. She stares. Cathy's never won anything in her life. Lotteries are a tax on stupidity. It's all in the numbers. Cancer is endemic until it happens to you. Until you're the lucky girl. Dip down under your chair and what's there? The end of everything.

She's never won anything before; she didn't even want to look. To feel around blankly beneath herself, wondering how lucky she could be. Quashing hope and living in it, scrabbling around, pathetic: None of that. No asking hope to hurt you again, even in the tiniest ways. But to have it handed to you, now, that might be a sign.

They usher her onstage; she beams. Not for the gay boys, not for their bodies, not for the applause: She smiles brightly for the numbers. Inside the box, which she opens with a key, is another boy: Air Force this time, that song by Berlin, for a moment or two before the thumping beat returns. He picks her up easily, like an officer, and seats her on the chair like a gentleman. Rebecca sits in the audience, still stinging. Jealous. Cathy doesn't appreciate anything she has. First the hat and then the glasses -- "Oh, just take it off!" Marlene screams -- and then the shirt. He places himself in her lap, reverse-cowboy, and suddenly he's doing a headstand in front of her.

"You must be very proud of yourself," she says nervously, leaning down toward his reddening face like a teacher, like a parent: "You're very talented. You bring a lot of joy to people. That's ... Really nice." It's not about his body, not this close. But she can't help but connect. In a Cathy way, in a way that says she's in charge of the context here: To show him that she's not turned on, that her body is still hers. That his efforts are appreciated but that his body is not an object, for her. When the pants come off, revealing a red sling underneath, Cathy makes her escape. He seems like a nice guy.

Rebecca's still unhappy, when she returns, but with a bit of adrenaline in her veins Cathy can't keep it as intense as before. She sounds pitying, indulgent; she feels neither but it sounds like she's talking to a dog: "Oh. Awwww, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I got so dark." Rebecca stares, still unsure. Angry and fierce. "I have vodka and caffeine chasing each other around my body..."