Carol and I were walking through the San Mateo train station late at night, on our way home. It was very quiet. I looked down, and there was a playing card on the platform, face down.
“A playing card,” I said. “Let’s see what it is.”
I bent down and turned it over.
“Five of clubs,” I said. “That means good luck.” That’s the kind of thing my mother used to say: she’d see some random thing, and say that it meant good luck.
“You just made that up,” said Carol.
“Not me,” I said.