Part 1: Coin Flip

The bell went, and the class erupted around Dustin. He didn’t get excited about the school day ending. His life didn’t begin anew after school. It just morphed into something just as boring, just as scary, or just as painful as it was during the day. He closed his eyes for a moment while the teacher hushed the class, the chaos starting to subside. He was always reminded of how pet owners torture their dogs, making them “stay” and balancing a treat on their nose. It was all about restraint. Dustin knew all about restraint.

As he stared into the darkness for that brief second, he started to see it once again. The vision that haunted him each and every day. Of things he had never seen. Maybe that were yet to happen… It started with a wide splotch of red. Not blood; that would come later. Then the camera pans to reveal a car, swerving to avoid the truck out of shot, but only managing to spin in place, balding tires having no purchase on the rain-slick road. Something in the tarmac catches, launching the vehicle over on its side, to begin it’s roll. The glimpse of the terrified people show them screaming, reaching for each other as the inevitable sends them forward to their destiny. Though he can see their faces he does not recognise them. The camera pans again. The truck starts to jackknife, hurtling towards the small car at ridiculous speed. The driver of the truck mirrors the horror on the faces of the soon dead. He sees what Dustin sees. He sees the end of two lives.

“And…” the teacher called back in the real world. Dustin opened his eyes, trying to shake off the feeling of dread and despair the vision always brought with it. “You may leave.” The kids started their frantic bustle, swinging their bags onto their shoulders as they surge towards the door. The teacher continues shouting over the cacophony, asking them to “Please remember both sheets of algebra for next Tuesday!” But by the time she finished her sentence the room was empty save for one kid. Dustin.

The woman  turned, noticing the boy, still sitting quietly in his seat. Dustin looked up at his teacher, a solemn look on his face.

“Still waiting, Dustin?” she asked softly. “Don’t you want to catch up with your friends?”

Dustin pushed back his chair and stuffed the last books and his coat into his backpack. “Just giving them a head-start, miss…” he mumbled, pulling the straps tight and locking them shut.

He exited the classroom and slowly made his way down the corridor. Was she blind? He didn’t have friends. The only “friends” he had were the kind who enjoyed greeting you in the mornings by way of a swift punch to the gut. If he was lucky, the brawn would have given up waiting for him, and moved on to head home. Who was he kidding? Everyone knew Dustin was anything but lucky.

Some of the kids said he was cursed, from the spots on his face to the soles of his feet. This year alone, he’d spilled corrosive chemicals across the table in science, started wiping off the wrong side of the board in maths, and begun reading the wrong page in english-lit, and he wasn’t three weeks into the new year, yet.

And for some reason, the other kids of his year felt this warranted further experiment. Wasn’t curiosity a beautiful thing? Every day, the three designated leads on this scientific expedition—the kind the Nazis wouldn’t mind employing—would kindly wait for him after school with some new and colourful way to test Dustin’s amazing powers of utter lucklessness.

As expected, despite Dustin’s attempts at waiting them out, the three boys were dedicated to their task.

“Hey, Dustbin!” one of them called as Dustin exited the schools foyer entrance. He’d picked up many and various nicknames over his time at the school, but “Dustbin” seemed to be the one settled on by the masses.

“Well howdy, Dustbin!” another called. Franky started to walk towards him from the patch of grass to the side of the playground. There wasn’t any rush; they wouldn’t let him escape through the gates a dozen feet away. Franky was the ringleader of the group. He was the usual slacker in class, always getting detentions, never attending even those with any regularity.

Brown—called by his surname rather than his unbearable first, Francis—picked himself up off the floor behind his leader, brushing off the dust and tiny stones he’d attracted. Their lookout, Matt, stood to the side of the foyer door, cutting off Dustin’s retreat or call for help.

“Fancy meeting you fellas here…” Dustin said cheerily. Franky stepped in close and powered a fist into Dustin’s gut. He coughed, feeling his muscles clench too late and pain spark across his ribs. The bruises from yesterday hadn’t even yellowed yet, even as the new ones started to ache.

“Well, we had a nice idea, see?” Franky said without missing a beat. “Tell him, Brown.”

“Oh. Yeah. Well, I thought since you’re unlucky and all… we could get a coin, and then—”

“Watch you lose every flip,” Matt’s deeper voice chimed in from behind Dustin.

“So what will it be, Dustbin?” Frank continued, holding up a pound coin for Dustin to see. “Heads…” He flipped the coin round showing the other side. “Or tails?”

Dustin sighed. “Seriously?”

Franky swore. “Do I look serious to you?” He pressed the coin into his victim’s face, a grin forming on his face as he saw Dustin’s face grimace in pain.

Dustin broke and spoke through gritted teeth. “Then I’ll have heads. Damnit…”

Franky pulled the coin away and nodded, satisfied. “Then let’s see, shall we?”

“But… what do I get if—”

Ignoring Dustin, Franky flipped the coin into the air and caught it with the other hand. “Tails,” he announced in a monotone, before slamming his fist across Dustin’s face.

Dustin fell to the ground. He found staying standing only prolonged the pain. The sooner he was down, the sooner it was all over with and he could start gathering his strength for the slow hobble back home.

“Well, that’s a nice start, isn’t it?” Franky shouted, laughing maniacally. “Let’s try that again, shall we?” Before Dustin could say a word, the coin was flipped and called a second time: “Tails again.” As soon as the words were said, the second blow hit, this time from behind.

As Dustin tried to keep his groans to a minimum, he writhed and twisted on the ground, catching the eye of Matt who had stepped away from the double doors to get in on the action. The boy was taller than almost anyone in the school, legs like beanpoles. Whenever he cared to play footie by the bike sheds he always won the ball off of any defenders, hacking them in the shins, stepping over them as they cried in agony and chipping it lightly into the goal.

“Here, let’s have a go,” Brown said, grabbing the coin out of Frank’s victorious hand.

Brown was a shorter kid, still holding onto some puppy fat. Dustin could remember the first year of the school. A fat little boy with the name of Francis was the obvious target, and he was stomped on daily until he had some how found his way onto Frank’s team of lunatics. Though Frank would never say so himself, Brown’s heft meant he hit harder than anyone else in the year. It hadn’t made him rise in the ranks of the bully hierarchy—he just wasn’t mean enough for that—but all the bullied kids knew to stay away from Frank’s gang or get pummeled by the heaviest fist in the school.

Brown flicked the coin into the air, but clumsily missed it on the way down. He waited with baited breath as it bounced about on the concrete, finally clattering to a halt. Come on, Dustin pleaded to himself. One time…

“Yay! Tails!” Brown called, letting out a giggle with boyish glee, swooping down with his giant meat fist and slamming it hard in Dustin’s side.

“Oh… come on, guys,” Dustin muttered between choking coughs. “What’s even the point of this?”

“What’s the point?” Frank asked, a sneer wrinkling his face. “The point is, you’re the most unlucky sod this school’s ever seen.” He grinned, and put on a cutesy, babying voice. “And you’re fun to play with.”

“You’re only having fun because there are no stakes,” Dustin said, doing his best to control his breathing and stay steady. “What are you, chicken?”

It was a coin. No matter what the kids said, he wasn’t cursed. There was a fifty-fifty chance of landing a heads, and there had been three tails already! There had to be a good chance of heads next time. The universe did not bend to his whim.

Brown let out a staccato laugh, but a stern look from Frank shut him up quick. Franky turned back to his prey, cowering on the ground. “Like you have anything to bet with…”

Dustin looked around the ground, trying to think of something he could barter with. “I… I guess…” There was only one thing he could give these low-lifes. They wanted their pound of flesh? Then that was what he’d give them. “I’ll give you me.”

“What?” Frank said, a stupid look on his face.

“Tails, you win first dibs. Every day. After school. I’m yours. No question.” Was he really doing this? This was insanity. Dustin breathed in deep to calm his nerves; strengthen his resolve.“And heads you leave me alone. For good.” He looked up into Frank’s eyes. The boy still looked perplexed. As perplexed as Dustin felt, inside.

A low laugh came from behind Dustin, and he rolled over to look at Matt. “The kid’s got spunk. Why not?” Matt said with a shrug.

Frank let out a laugh of his own, still unsure. “Yeah… sure. Why not?”

“And how about this?” Matt continued. “You get to toss the coin.”

“But it’s my—” Franky started.

“He gets to toss the coin,” Matt interrupted, a command to his voice Dustin had only ever heard once or twice, booming across a busy playground. Did he think this was some kindness, to torture Dustin with having his own fate in his hands? They all knew it would land tails, just as sure as the rain fell when he forgot his coat last week and his coursework was ruined by a leaky bottle the week before that.

“Yeah,” Franky said, looking down at Dustin, eyes still unsure what was going on. “Yeah, let the guinea pig do it. It won’t change nothin’.”

He scraped the pound across the concrete to Dustin, and Dustin took it, sitting up on the ground. He closed his eyes, rubbing the cold metal between his fingers. He took short breaths and pushed out the air. Starting to feel himself welling up, he shook his head and clenched his jaw.

“Is… is he crying?” Brown mumbled curiously.

Dustin continued his controlled breathing and put himself somewhere else. He wasn’t here, being beaten to a pulp on the whim of a coin. He was walking home, happy in the knowledge no one was out to get him. Safe in his own skin. Confident in his ability to lead a perfectly normal life. The terrible vision could not reach him in this other place. He had denied the premonition and took hold of his destiny with both hands.

One last, deep breath… hold it… and then out.

Dustin opened his eyes and flipped the coin. It spun high into the air before soaring down in a shallow arc. He didn’t even hold out his hand to catch it; just stared at it as it zipped down towards the concrete.

It bounced once. Twice. Then skittered across the tarmac, ricocheting off the uneven surfaces, rolling closer and closer to a nearby drain. And then with a soft thud, it fell in, landing in amongst the dead leaves and moss that grew in the shallow gutter.

Dustin looked up at Franky. Franky looked down at Dustin. Both boys swore under their breath. “You bloody bastard! Your bad luck jumped to the coin! You owe me a quid now, don’t ya?” The boy landed a kick in Dustin’s chest, landing him flat on his back once more.

Dustin thought he heard a crack as his world shuddered, vision blurring as he tried to catch his breath. He barely felt the slew of kicks and punches the three laid into him, the punishment starting to dull his senses against the pain. He held onto his backpack tight, steeling himself for what he felt could be the end of it all…

“Ow!” a voice cried. Dustin opened an eye, still wincing at the sharp ache across his body and legs. “My toe! My bloody toe!” Franky yelped, collapsing to the ground, clutching at his leg in agony.

Brown, good boy as he was, rushed to his friend’s side. He looked back at Dustin wide eyes, tears welling in the corners. “He really is cursed. His giving us his bad luck!”

Matt walked around Dustin, looking down at his fallen comrade’s foot. “What’s the matter, Frank?” he said in his deep, rumbling voice.

“I think it’s broke!” Frank responded through gritted teeth. “Must’ve caught it on his damn buckle or something.”

The taller boy looked over at Dustin, eyeing him suspiciously. The strap on the backpack had a small plastic buckle for adjustment, but it surely wasn’t hard enough to… was it? “No. No, you did something, Dustin,” Matt muttered, a scared look on his face. “You led us on and then you did something to his foot! I’m… I’m getting a teacher!”

“But Matt—” Brown objected.

“Stay there and don’t let him move,” Matt replied, pointing to Dustin and moving hurriedly toward the foyer doors.

At that moment, the boy’s foot struck a rock, sending him flying. His body hit the ground with a hard crunch, tiny stones quickly skittering away from the impact.

Brown looked up at his colleague in arms. “Matt?” he said, weakly. Matt did not move. Dustin rolled over to see the boy, strewn on the floor and out cold. Must have hit his head on the concrete. That was going to hurt in the morning.

“I think he’s passed out,” Dustin said, turning to look at the third bully.

“You— You did it!” Brown stuttered.

“I didn’t touch him,” Dustin said, pushing himself up off of the ground to a sitting position, wincing as his bones moved and shot hot pain up his spine.

“Did too!” Franky snapped back. “It’s your luck that got him!” The boy waved a finger in Dustin’s direction, though his hand shook from fear.

Dustin sniggered, triggering more pain, though he smiled through it. Reaching forward, he forced himself back to his feet despite complaints from his ribs and knee. The laugh came again, pleasure mixed with pain, and he started the long stagger home.

When he reached the gate, he looked back. Still not a teacher in sight. They’d leave Matt on the ground, most likely. It was that or ‘fess up to what they’d been up to in the playground, after school, with Dustin “Dustbin” Crewe, known victim of the whole damn school. So Dustin turned and continued out of the school.

Though this morning he wished he could bring himself to tell someone, he was okay that no one would know what had happened today. He didn’t need the teachers to save him, now. Didn’t need his parents to notice something was wrong. He’d taken hold of his own destiny. He’d won, off his own back against three of the meanest, no good, evil blighters in the area.

He had always felt like something bad would happen to him. Maybe the vision would come true one day, maybe he was just going to get beat up every day after school, the bell tolling his impending turmoil. This was the first time he’d dared to hope of more. To dream of something other than death and terror. It was the first time he’d seen happiness and contentment in his future.

I guess the universe answered, Dustin thought, tears streaking down his cheeks. He let them wet his face, let his jaw slack and tighten, soaking up the physical pain, the mental anguish. He breathed a deep, sobbing breath, and let out all the fear, all the anger, all the regret. Now he was in control of his own destiny.

---

Half an hour later, Matt came to. Rousing from his dreamless sleep, he pulled himself up off the ground, feeling at his temple to find a bulging bruise. What would his dad say when he found out? It was the belt for him, for sure.

Looking around at the playground in the dying light, he saw a few drops of blood in another spot. Dustin. That was right. It was that kid’s flip, and coin—

Matt stumbled across to the grating embedded in the concrete, and peered carefully into the gutter. There, in the bed of dead leaves and scummy moss lay a pound coin, the queen’s head glinting in the moonlight.

Part 2: Leap of Faith

Dustin stepped up to the edge, carefully peering over into the 300 foot drop beyond. He wasn’t the type to get vertigo, but still felt his hands shake as he stared down at the ground. Of course, the fact that half the casino owners in Las Vegas wanted him dead had him on edge already. But what a week it had been…

The boy looked across the rooftop, contemplating his fate. They would know where he was by now; they were probably making their way up the building already. Simply waiting for them was sure to end in broken legs if he was lucky, a broken face if he wasn’t. The casinos did not take kindly to fifteen year olds sneaking into their establishment and sneaking out with a couple hundred thousand dollars of winnings. Do this a few more times, and you've managed to get on the wrong side of an entire city’s worth of pit bosses.

Dustin looked back down at the shimmering, mirrored surface of the building. It was quite beautiful from this angle, but he wondered what it would look like when he was zipping past at terminal velocity.

A gust of wind blasted through him, pushing him back behind the lip of the roof and sending him toppling to the ground. He'd never been so high up in his life; not outside, anyway. It was amazing how nature had its way of giving subtle hints that it doesn’t want you there. Deep under water nature crushed you like a pimple under a sledgehammer. High up and it’ll do its darndest to blow you off whatever peak you’d managed to scale.

But maybe that was it. People fell off tall buildings and got saved by gusts of wind, right? He was sure he'd read that somewhere. Just a pinch of Kismet, drop a few dozen floors, and get smashed through a window. Painful, no doubt, but needs must.

It was a big ask, though. No matter how hard he’d tried since he discovered his power, it didn’t seem to be quite as fine-tuned as he’d like it to be. Wishing for a specific series of events never quite worked as intended, and for something as unlikely as this was, with so many ways for it all to go horribly wrong, it wasn't even worth trying.

Everything seemed to hinge on the feeling, rather than the order of events. The first time his Kismet kicked in, all he had was a wish for a better life, and that worked out just fine. But how do you really test something so… fuzzy? Could it really be as simple as that? To just want to be safe, and the universe would fill in the rest?

Two muffled shots resounded across the flat roof, and Dustin instinctively ducked down. The wooden door splintered, crumbling apart as four men in black suits burst onto the rooftop. Two of them had guns.

Crap, Dustin thought. Crap, crap, crap!

He quickly scrambled to a low air-conditioning unit that jutted out from the flat roof. He leaned up against it, trying to catch his breath. They were here already. This was really happening.

Dustin looked across at the black duffle bag. The one full of money. Why’d he even bring it up here? They were going to see it for sure.

“Look!” a deep, gravelly voice boomed. “A bag!”

That damned Kismet! Dustin thought, biting his lip.

That was the one thing he wasn't such a fan of with his newfound power. Having the universe pay attention to your thoughts and feelings didn't play so well if you weren't feeling that optimistic.

Okay. So what now? They knew he was here, they were on their way over to him, and they had loaded, fully-working, definitely-not-toy guns. Only one thing to do.

Dustin popped up from behind his cover. Ignoring the shouts of alarm from the four men, he started in a run towards the roof’s edge, grabbing the bag as he went. And with a deep breath, he closed his eyes and leapt into the air.

“Kismet” means fate. Or something. Dustin had never quite read enough about it to be sure, but it sounded cool, and so that was the name he used for his superpower. It seemed to him everyone was born with some amount of Kismet. Most people didn’t have much, or if they did, they put it down to blind luck or coincidence.

Dustin didn't know any of this, of course—he had nothing to go on but his own experiences—but it all felt about right, and over the years since he discovered his gift, he'd learned to trust his instincts on this stuff.

Dustin also guessed this was why there was an age limit for gambling. Get some punk kid who had a decent amount of Kismet and knew how to use it, and your casino would go bankrupt in a single night. So why take the risk? Lucky for Dustin, he was tall for his age. He just walked in like he owned the place, and it all just seemed to work out fine. Until he found himself plummeting from a hundred story building towards a sticky end, of course.

No. Mustn't think like that, Dustin thought. Have to keep focused. He'd be fine. He didn't know what would happen, or the probability of his survival, but with a little concentration, he could start to feel it. He could feel the relief of escaping the casinos and their lynch mob. He could feel happy he'd made it out alive and intact. And—why not?—he could feel the reassuring weight of the bag of money in his hand.

In that instant, a sudden gust caught the bag, ripping it from his grasp. Fine, Dustin thought. Screw the money. Just get me out of this alive!

He could sense his body spinning slowly in the air, until his was plummeting head first towards the ground. His lips started to flap against his face, as though someone was wobbling his cheeks at a rate of knots. It kinda tickled.

He let out a staccato laugh. But as he did so, his jaw was wrenched open, air shoving its way into his mouth. It was an odd feeling, not being able to breathe when so much oxygen was slamming into your face. Dustin tried desperately to close his jaw while sucking in air through his nose at a more manageable rate. But it was no use. He felt his head lighten, time seeming to slow in a prolonged torture.

Come on, Dustin thought. I'm being as positive as I can here, but you've gotta kick in soon, or else—

A second gust interrupted his train of thought. His body lurched to one side. Dustin scrunched his eyes up ever tighter. He just hoped he was being flung towards the building and not further out over the streets below.

The sound changed somehow, the loud, bellowing air stream quieting down on one side of him. Did that mean he was nearing the windows? If all went according to plan he was going to break through one of the extra thick plate glass. He just hoped it wouldn't break him in the process. He brought back the feelings once more, making them clearer and clearer in his mind. He'd make it. He had to.

A third gust blew, this time from below, slowing his descent. And suddenly, all was quiet. The blast of air was reduced to a light whistle somewhere off to his left, and his ears rang from the abuse they’d had to withstand. How long had he been falling for? Minutes? Hours?

After a time, he sensed a weight beneath him. It was his weight. Had he stopped? His body, his hands and fingers all felt numb from the lack of oxygen, and a dull throbbing ached inside his head.

He opened his eyes. There was a carpet beneath him, stretching off down the corridor. He could feel the deep red shag between his fingers now. As he pulled himself up a nearby wall, he noticed the doors at regular intervals down the hall, their shiny keycard readers glinting in the fluorescent lights above.

But where was the broken glass? Was he so out of it he couldn't feel the pain of the impact?

Dustin turned and stared at a square hole in the side of the building, floor to ceiling, wall to wall. Lucky for him, they must've been working on this floor; replacing the pane of glass for whatever reason. And there, sitting just on the edge of the floor, sat a bag, still full of money, waiting for him to collect it.

He staggered towards it, picking it up with a sigh. He felt the weight of it in his hand. It was just as he imagined.

Part 3: Kismet

Dustin entered the casino. It was quiet for an afternoon, but being hidden down some back-alley, it wasn’t destined to be the hottest spot in the city. He paused for a moment, taking in a deep breath. It’ll all go according to plan, he reassured himself. Everything will be fine. It always is.

Striding forward confidently, the boy listened as the door closed itself behind him. After a moment to let his eyes adjust to the cold casino lights, he eyed the tables carefully. The place looked good on the surface, but on closer inspection it was showing signs of wear and tear. The wallpaper peeling in a corner, the wood facing showing scratches, revealing the chipboard beneath. It had been the same in the other places he’d visited. He targeted the off-piste establishments; not so underground as to be dangerous, but not too popular either. The room had pockets of gamblers hunched over tables here and there, a few of the unlucky ones nursing beers and whiskeys over at the bar.

Stuck to the mirror behind the barkeep was a sign that said ‘Strictly over 18s only!’ in bold white-on-red letters. Of course, Dustin knew why such laws were in place. The Kismet was strongest when you were a baby, and tended to trail off as you aged and got more familiar with the general crappiness the world offered. It was strongest when you’re born; stronger still if you birth was dramatic… a tragedy like your mother dying in childbirth would grant you extra-special ability.

Dustin wasn’t that lucky, though. Born to average parents that never really understood their son, his birth had been an averagely joyous occasion for them; not much drama to be had, unfortunately. He did have the luck to notice the gift, though. In all his searching, he had not found one other kid talking about his amazing luck; his ability to know… to really believe a thing would happen, the universe answering by granting the wish. Some called such things fate; coincidence; quaint happenstance that no one could control. He called it his Kismet.

The familiar sound of a roulette ball spinning resounded across the room, followed by the clatter of it settling into a slot, cheers and groans coming from the onlookers. It drew him closer. There were ten or so people crowded round the table, with four players scraping their chips to themselves and then placing their next bets. The larger crowd would make it easier to quietly watch as he prepared.

When he had joined the group there was a small, middle-aged man standing just in front of Dustin. The man wore a white shirt and scruffy tweed trousers held up by suspenders, like in a cartoon. Every so often he’d dab his forehead with a handkerchief, mopping at the droplets of nervous sweat that formed there. He isn’t doing so well, Dustin guessed. The perfect mark.

“Are you playing again, sir?” the croupier asked politely.

“Er… yes,” the man spluttered, looking down in dismay at his few remaining chips. Looked like he was down to twenty or thirty pounds. Leaning across the table, he placed his last chips on 31.

“You sure, Joe?” another man chided, a skinny, haggard woman on his arm. “Don’t want to quit while you’re ahead?” His voice was slimy, matching his slicked-back hair and pointy grin perfectly. Dustin felt a shiver bolt down his spine.

The older man just shivered and leant hard against the table, knuckles white as they gripped the edging and eyes shut tight as if to brace himself for the inevitable.

“And… rolling!” the croupier called out, launching the ball around the opposite way to the spinner. Dustin started preparing.

The way Kismet worked was simple. You didn’t need to make a wish, or rub some trinket while saying the magic words. Instead all Dustin had to do was imagine, as vividly as possible, the feeling of a thing happening. What would it be like for such-and-such a thing to happen? How would it feel? What would the atmosphere be like? Keep that in your mind’s eye well enough and the universe would slowly come round to the idea that it should grant you that feeling for real.

And so, Dustin knew the ball would land true. He could imagine the look on the man’s face; could see the chips being dished out and the gentleman happily pulling them back towards himself. He looked at the floor and focussed on that feeling, wincing as he waited for the sound to announce the ball had landed.

A bounce, a second, and… with a clatter the ball had chosen.

“Well, what do you know, Joe?” the slimy man chirped.

“What?” the older man said, in disbelief. “I… won?”

The crowd to either side of him cheered and patted him on the shoulder. Dustin dodged the flailing arms to stay out of the spotlight, but he couldn’t help a smile. It was a by-product of his plan, but it always felt good to give someone a little happiness in these soulless places of torment.

“Congratulations, sir,” the croupier said with a nod, dishing out the winnings and helping the man pull them off of the board. “Maybe your luck is turning around?” he said with a thin smile. Dustin hated that. The way the house players manipulated the customers and gave their false praise. Having bet on a single number, the man had won somewhere around £500 in one hit. If the house was going to win it back, the man would have to lose. And to lose he would have to keep playing. The whole thing made his skin crawl.

“Er… yeah,” the older man said, shakily. “Yeah, I think I will.” He shoved his winnings back onto the board, piling it up haphazardly on the thirteen spot.

Great, Dustin thought. Now I’ve got that to contend with. There wasn’t any real curse on the number thirteen; Dustin’s Kismet was largely unaffected by the number whenever it cropped up. The problem was that everyone ‘knows’ that thirteen is unlucky and, whether consciously or unconsciously, they have trouble not thinking it’s all going to go horribly wrong in some way. Especially with the gambling crowd. Not only would Dustin have to overcome his own worries about the bet’s outcome… his Kismet was up against everyone else’s superstition.

“And… rolling!” the croupier called, shooting the ball round the wheel once more.

Okay. Here goes nothing, Dustin thought, closing his eyes and balling his hands into fists. He could see the man weeping with joy, throwing chips into the air. The crowd going wild and the croupier looking like he’d sucked a lemon. Now that was a nice image.

Dustin listened as the ball bounced once, twice, a third time, and then stopped. He opened an eye tentatively. “And that’s a thirteen!” the croupier announced. Dustin opened his eyes and felt the people to either side of him jostle him to and fro. The crowd had grown a little now, everyone smiling and reaching for the man in front of him, trying to snatch at his luck. Little did they know he had a little help.

He grinned, looking around at the smiling faces. He did that. It was all thanks to him. Now if the old man didn’t blow it on another bet—

Dustin caught the eye of a bouncer, standing quietly, back to the wall ahead of him. He was around 5’ 9”, but packed a lot of muscle under his perfectly tailored tux. The man stared back, unflinching. Dustin hadn’t noticed the man before; the walls were poorly lit at the end of the room, and he stood strategically to be almost invisible to anyone not looking for him until it was too late and stepped out of the shadows to throw some poor sucker out on his ear.

Dustin felt something catch in his throat and swallowed hard. I have to get this done, he thought. That bouncer won’t stand there for long if he thinks there’s any foul play.

“Wow!” Dustin said heartily, slapping the man ahead of him on the back, watching the man’s winnings get shovelled across the table. “Well played, old man! I hope you don’t mind if I get in on the action at this juncture?” Adults say juncture, right? Dustin thought hopefully.

“Oh… No, no, I don’t mind, sir,” the man replied uncertainly.

“Ah! There’s a good chap,” Dustin continued. Pushing through the crowd to the table, he brought his bag onto the edge and brought out a couple of bundles of money. Two thousand pounds. “So… two-k on thirteen?” he said, turning to the croupier.

“Chips for two thousand, sir?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Dustin said, glancing down at his watch. “I’m kind of late for my flight. Would just cash be okay? You can count it; it’s all there…”

The croupier looked unsure and called over the floor manager for the establishment. They spoke for a moment in hushed tones. They’d agree. Losing tens of thousands of pounds in a single sitting wasn’t their style, and a big bet like this would start making it back.

“I’m sorry I can’t stay for too long. Just one little bet before I hit the road again, eh?”

The manager stepped back and the croupier said, “Very well, sir. We’ll take your bet. We’ll ready your potential winnings as we spin the wheel, if that is agreeable?”

Dustin nodded. It was all going according to plan… “Sounds good to me, young man!” Too much?

The croupier spun the wheel and readied the ball. “Then everyone, please place your bets!” he called. One or two others put their chips onto the board, some even joining the man’s bet on 13. Maybe their optimism will make this a little easier to pull off, Dustin thought, sliding his bundles of notes across the table.

“And… rolling!” the croupier chirped.

As the ball rolled around the outer edge of the wheel, Dustin felt his pulse race, adrenaline pumping through his body, heart thudding in his chest. He would make this. He’d take his winnings. He’d walk out of here soft and easy.

The ball snagged on a spike, ricocheting into the air. Hitting a second spike, the ball started skittering over the slots, threatening to land at any moment. “Yes!” Dustin muttered, slamming a fist into the padded table edging. He would make it! He could see it all come together! It became real to him!

The ball stopped bouncing. The crowd held their breath.

“And that’s a thirteen!” the croupier announced, a look of unease on his face. The crowd cheered, players and spectators raising their glasses in jubilation.

“Wow!” Dustin exclaimed with a sigh. “Lucky number thirteen, huh?”

The older man to his side embraced Dustin in a mighty bear-hug, squeezing the air out of his lungs.

The manager stepped forward, wheeling a short table in front that held a pile of money. “Should we load your winnings into the bag sir,” he asked, “or are you willing to take another gamble?” His face was hopeful, hands wringing, beads of sweat gathering across his forehead.

“I don’t think I’ll tempt fate a fourth time,” Dustin said happily. “I think I’ll quit while I’m ahead, if you don’t mind.”

The bouncer moved then, stepping away from the wall, the cold lights glinting off of his bald head. Why is he—?

“Very well, sir,” the manager said, dejected. Two attendants stepped forward and started loading his bag with his new 70 grand or so. Not bad for a day’s work. He’d had more in the past, but with more winnings comes more suspicion. He guessed he could probably take down a casino in a single night, but that would bring the heat for sure.

No; one hit was enough to tide him over for now.

“And that’s £74,000 to you, sir,” the manager said, zipping up the duffel bag, the bundles of money fitting nice and snug inside. “Very well played.”

Dustin nodded his thanks and picked up the bag, the weight reassuring on his shoulder. “Well thank you very much for the fun,” he said. Then, turning to the man to his side, he continued, “And thank you, sir, for your winning streak.” They shook hands, the older man grinning crazily, tears in his eyes.

Dustin turned then, starting towards the door once more. He could feel himself start to breathe again. It felt like he had held his breath for so long he could burst. He breathed in deep, doing his best to keep it slow and controlled. He couldn’t let his cool facade slip now.

It didn’t matter, now, if they figured out his gift or not. He was allowed to gamble and even win a substantial amount of money from them, all the while being underage. Dustin knew the law was there to stop kids like him, their in-born Kismet still fresh, from destroying gambling dens in one sitting… but it would serve him, now. If they brought any legal action to him—tried to sue him for the money or have him thrown into jail—they’d have to pay the fines for allowing a minor to play their tables. That, plus the scandal in the papers would bring the place down as surely as if he’d gambled them into bankruptcy himself. He was home-free.

“Congratulations, sir,” the barman called as he passed.

“Thanks, man,” Dustin said, his boyish vocabulary coming back now he was relaxing. As he glanced at the man, he saw something in the mirror behind him. The bouncer was following; not so close as to be obvious, but trailing along behind. Why was he so suspicious? He hadn’t given him any cause for concern, had he? He was just some guy who came in, watched a couple of games and then—

But wait. He’d said he’d tempted fate three times. But he had only played the once. Maybe the bouncer had realised something was up, or maybe Dustin’s slip-up just hung about the man’s subconscious, telling him something wasn’t right. Either way, if the bald, well-built man caught up with him, it wouldn’t be long before his true age would be discovered.

Keep calm, Dustin thought, frantically. Everything will be okay if you just keep calm…

Crashing against the door, he swung it out wide into the dark night air, then started a brisker pace across the forecourt and on into the street. He heard the door open a second time, squeaky hinges betraying his pursuer. He daren’t look back. He looked back now and all was lost.

Starting across the quiet back-alley road, Dustin closed his eyes. Walking blind, he clenched his fists and trusted it would all be okay. He could feel the relief of realising the bouncer was no longer following. He could see himself relaxing in the tub of some hotel penthouse suite, safe in the knowledge the bald man would never bother him ever again. He felt his neck relax, despite the heavy load. His hands opened, and he breathed deep once more.

Slowly, Dustin opened his eyes, stepping up onto the curb in front of him. It was then he became aware of a peculiar sound. Almost like tires—

Quickly spinning on a heel, he watched in horror as an articulated truck barrelled down the road towards his follower.

“What the—” the bald man cried, staring in awe at the truck that seemingly came out of nowhere.

As the juggernaut-like vehicle bore down the street it slammed into cars parked on the other side of the street, pushing over lampposts and phone polls. Why on earth would such a huge lorry decide to venture down such a small side road? It was nonsensical. There was no logical explanation.

“Look ou—” Dustin cried, reaching a hand out towards the man.

But it was too late. In a split second, the truck slammed into the man, tires screeching to no avail. The man’s ragdoll body flew down the road, skimming across the tarmac like the ball skittered across the numbers.

Dustin turned and felt his knees weaken. He bent double and sucked in air hard and fast. “What… The… Hell…” A spark of realisation hit him as hard as the truck had hit that poor man. “No,” he said, desperately. “No, no, no, no, no…”

It was him. The bouncer would never bother him again. He was home-free. He could go to that penthouse suite and soak in that bath as long as he want, his fears leeching away. He had nothing to worry about now. No suspicion that could come back and bite him. No repercussion for his actions. No consequences. Just how he always thought it would be.

Wiping away tears, Dustin stood up straight, breathing in the cold night air, feeling the burn in his lungs. He closed his eyes once more. He could see himself forgetting about this… accident. For that’s all it was. He would go on living his life knowing he had nothing to do with it. No guilt. No worry. He was rich now, after all… wasn’t he?