On Simon Scott's birthday, my mom picked up a lucky charm for him from a roadside night-market stand. It was three dollars, a small copper-colored four-leaf clover dangling from a piece of string. She even wrapped it carefully in the cloth, saying, "The vendor told me it had been blessed by the church and would keep its wearer safe." When Simon received the gift, my dad used his hands that had lost two fingers to an accident to fasten it around Simon's neck, his movements unsteady. Simon claimed his family had gone under. He had no parents, no home, and nowhere to belong. For years, my parents had treated him like their own son. But I learned the truth one night. I brought Simon dinner. The office door was cracked open, and the sound of laughter drifted out as his friends lounged around inside. "A three-dollar lucky charm?" "Simon, your fiancée's family is really scraping the bottom of the barrel." Another guy laughed nastily, "I've seen her dad. Missing two fingers, his hands looked like chicken feet. If I ran into that at midnight, I wouldn't sleep for a week." Simon sat in the middle of the couch, silent. Curled against his shoulder, Vivian York scooped up her dog. "This piece of junk would work great as a dog collar." Before anyone could respond, she looped the lucky charm around the dog's neck. Tilting her head, she looked at Simon. "Feeling better now?" Simon gave a quiet laugh and lit a cigarette, "A little. Her dad made such a fuss over a scholarship slot back then that you got written up by the school. He has spent his whole life preaching fairness. Guess that righteous attitude got his fingers crushed off." I stood outside the door for a long time. Long enough for the meal in my hands to lose all its warmth. The laughter inside carried on.