The third scroll was dropped onto her binder as she rushed between classes at mid-morning break. The halls were crowded, she hadn't seen anyone of note beside her—the scroll hadn't been there, then suddenly it was...To her left, she spotted an open maintenance closet, full of cleaning solutions and wet mops. Stepping in, she closed the door and fumbled for the light switch. Frantically she tore at the ribbon and the wax seal, not caring if the paper ripped...
As her eyes reluctantly returned to the black message scrawled across the page, the light bulb's electric after-image danced across her retinas, confusing her vision, but the third scroll's contents had already been seared deep into her memory.
Congratulations! You are this year's lottery winner.
After you notice the first wrinkle or grey hair, after your husband or wife or child leavesforever, after you have been abducted by aliens, nothing will ever be the same. Everyone knows this.Everything will fall apart, will come undone, will break ranks and head for the hills.
...
Her name is Margaret Atwood. Tha's right. She is no relation, bears no resemblance, has no literary ambitions; she simply bears the same damn good name. She has explained all these things to shop clerks and bank tellers and office nurses throughout her adult life. Yet they persist. In fact, her name is Margaret H. Atwood, but don't ask her about the the "H"?. Really. Never ask.
