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The Drifter Who Gambled With a Star

by Sam McAlister
Chapter 1
He came in with boots full of dust
and a grin that looked borrowed
from a better life.
Nobody knew his real name.
He carried it like a secret
that wanted out.

The saloon lights flickered
when he sat down,
as if warning the walls
to stay quiet.
The stranger across the table
was too still,
coat shimmering like a mirage
trying to pretend it was cloth.

A coin rolled from the stranger’s hand.
Not metal.
Not right.
It glowed like a bruise on the night air,
warm enough to pull the breath
from the drifter’s throat.

They played cards slow,
each shuffle bending the shadows
out of shape.
Every time the coin pulsed,
the lamps dimmed,
and the room leaned a fraction
toward the table.
Even the jukebox held its breath,
a single note trapped inside it
like a moth behind glass.

Outside the windows
the stars rearranged,
quiet as guilt.
They turned their faces toward the saloon,
waiting.
Listening.

The drifter won the final hand
by the smallest whisper of luck.
He touched the coin.
It shivered.
The walls stretched thin,
as if the building was deciding
whether to stay or follow him.

He left into the dreamless night,
coin in hand,
walking toward the edge of the highway
where the sky hung too low
and the road dust tasted electric.

By dawn they found only his hat,
still warm,
still humming in a quiet, steady rhythm.
A trail of cards led into the brush,
each painted with constellations
no one had ever charted.
Some of them blinked
when touched by morning light.

Folks say he gambled once too close
to something older than creation,
and when he won,
it collected its due.

Some nights the stars shift again,
slow and guilty,
and the neon signs flicker
as if remembering
the moment they watched
a man walk out of this world
and into theirs.