There was another app, as well, one that made me think of Mr. Harrigan even on that first joyful morning. Something much cooler than the satellite radio in his car. At least for guys like him.

“Thanks, Dad,” I said, and hugged him. “Thank you so much!”

“Just don’t overuse it. The phone charges are sky-high, and I’ll be keeping track.”

“They’ll come down,” I said.

I was right about that, and Dad never gave me a hard time about the charges. I didn’t have many people to call anyway, but I did like those YouTube videos (Dad did, too), and I loved being able to go on what we then called the three w’s: the worldwide web. Sometimes I would look at articles in Pravda, not because I understood Russian but just because I could.

* * *

Not quite two months later, I came home from school, opened the mailbox, and found an envelope addressed to me in Mr. Harrigan’s old-fashioned script. It was my Valentine’s Day card. I went into the house, dropped my schoolbooks on the table, and opened it. The card wasn’t flowery or sappy, that wasn’t Mr. Harrigan’s style. It showed a man in a tuxedo holding out a tophat and bowing in a field of flowers. The Hallmark message inside said, May you have a year filled with love and friendship. Below that: Good Wishes from Mr. Harrigan. A bowing man with his hat held out, a good wish, no sticky stuff. That was Mr. Harrigan all over. Looking back, I’m surprised he considered Valentine’s Day worth a card.

In 2008, the Lucky Devil one-dollar scratchers had been replaced by ones called Pine Tree Cash. There were six pine trees on the little card. If the same amount was beneath three of them when you scratched them off, you won that amount. I scratched away the trees and stared at what I had uncovered. At first I thought it was either a mistake or some kind of joke, although Mr. Harrigan was not the joke-playing type. I looked again, running my fingers along the uncovered numbers, brushing away crumbles of what my dad called (always with the eye-roll) “scratch-dirt.” The numbers stayed the same. I might have laughed, that I can’t recall, but I remember screaming, all right. Screaming for joy.

I grabbed my new phone out of my pocket (that phone went everywhere with me) and called Parmeleau Tractors. I got Denise, the receptionist, and when she heard how out of breath I was, she asked me what was wrong.

“Nothing, nothing,” I said, “but I have to talk to my dad right now.”

“All right, just hold on.” And then: “You sound like you’re calling from the other side of the moon, Craig.”

“I’m on my cell phone.” God, I loved saying that.

Denise made a humph sound. “Those things are full of radiation. I’d never own one. Hold on.”

My dad also asked me what was wrong, because I’d never called him at work before, even on the day the schoolbus left without me.

“Dad, I got my Valentine’s Day scratch ticket from Mr. Harrigan—”

“If you called to tell me you won ten dollars, it could have waited until I—”

“No, Daddy, it’s the big prize!” Which it was, for dollar scratch-offs back then. “I won three thousand dollars!”

Silence from the other end of the line. I thought maybe I’d lost him. In those days cell phones, even the new ones, dropped calls all the time. Ma Bell wasn’t always the best mother.

“Dad? Are you still there?”

“Uh-huh. Are you sure?”

“Yes! I’m looking right at it! Three three thousands! One in the top row and two in the bottom!”

Another long pause, then I heard my father telling someone I think my kid won some money. A moment later he was back to me. “Put it somewhere safe until I get home.”

“Where?”

“How about the sugar cannister in the pantry?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Yeah, okay.”

“Craig, are you positive? I don’t want you to be disappointed, so check again.”

I did, somehow convinced that my dad’s doubt would change what I had seen; at least one of those $3000s would now be something else. But they were the same.

I told him that, and he laughed. “Well, then, congratulations. Marcel’s tonight, and you’re buying.”

That made me laugh. I can’t remember ever feeling such pure joy. I needed to call someone else, so I called Mr. Harrigan, who answered on his Luddite landline.

“Mr. Harrigan, thank you for the card! And thank you for the ticket! I—”

“Are you calling on that gadget of yours?” he asked. “You must be, because I can barely hear you. You sound like you’re on the other side of the moon.”

“Mr. Harrigan, I won the big prize! I won three thousand dollars! Thank you so much!”

There was a pause, but not as long as my father’s, and when he spoke again, he didn’t ask me if I was sure. He did me that courtesy. “You struck lucky,” he said. “Good for you.”

“Thank you!”

“You’re welcome, but thanks really aren’t necessary. I buy those things by the roll. Send em off to friends and business acquaintances as a kind of . . . mmm . . . calling-card, you could say. Been doing it for years. One was bound to pay off big sooner or later.”

“Dad will make me put most of it in the bank. I guess that’s okay. It will certainly perk up my college fund.”

“Give it to me, if you like,” Mr. Harrigan said. “Let me invest it for you. I think I can guarantee a better return than bank interest.” Then, speaking more to himself than to me: “Something very safe. This isn’t going to be a good year for the market. I see clouds on the horizon.”

“Sure!” I reconsidered. “At least probably. I have to talk to my dad.”

“Of course. Only proper. Tell him I’m willing to also guarantee the base sum. Are you still coming to read for me this afternoon? Or will you put that aside, now that you’re a man of means?”

“Sure, only I have to be back when Dad gets home. We’re going out to dinner.” I paused. “Would you like to come?”

“Not tonight,” he said, with no hesitation. “You know, you could have told me all of this in person, since you’re coming up, anyway. But you enjoy that gadget of yours, don’t you?” He didn’t wait for me to answer that; he didn’t need to. “What would you think of investing your little windfall in Apple stock? I believe that company is going to be quite successful in the future. I’m hearing the iPhone is going to bury the BlackBerry. Pardon the pun. In any case, don’t answer now; discuss it with your father first.”

“I will,” I said. “And I’ll be right up. I’ll run.”

“Youth is a wonderful thing,” said Mr. Harrigan. “What a shame it’s wasted on children.”

“Huh?”

“Many have said it, but Shaw said it best. Never mind. Run, by all means. Run like the dickens, because Dickens awaits us.”

* * *

I ran the quarter of a mile to Mr. Harrigan’s house, but walked back, and on the way I had an idea. A way to thank him, even though he said no thanks were necessary. Over our fancy dinner at Marcel’s that night, I told Dad about Mr. Harrigan’s offer to invest my windfall, and I also told him my idea for a thank-you gift. I thought Dad would have his doubts, and I was right.