"You know, the burger is the best thing we've invented since sliced bread," I explained to Jordan over our midmorning coffee.

"I have my Cantonese language advocacy volunteer meeting tonight, I can't go out. You should've asked Dennis."

"I don't get what's so important about tonight. What's the worst that's gonna happen if you ditch them for a night?"

"They'll salt the earth with their tears, and cry out 'O captain, my captain!'"

"Surely you can't be serious."

"I guess they'll do without me," Jordan said resignedly. "Swing by my office when you're done for the day."

I'd always thought of Jordan as a warm, charming person, and I was surprised to see that not reflected in his office decor. His office was sparsely decorated, with a panoramic photo of what I recognized as Hong Kong the only wall decoration—he also had a Dilbert plushie on his computer monitor and a tray of candy I didn't recognize, but that was it. There wasn't any green but the wrappers of something he tried handing me.

"It's guava. They're good," he said.

"I don't want to spoil my appetite."

"Suit yourself." He unwrapped and popped one of the guava candies in his mouth, and we left work behind.

"Do you think much about your life, Mike?" Jordan asked when we were about halfway there. I'd committed the path to muscle memory by then—I'd even started to recognize the passersby.

"I've been thinking more about it lately, now that you mention it."

"I was thinking that it's been a while since I've done this, and it seems like everyone else has done so much while I've done so little. Like I always see Heather's posts on Instagram, how one weekend she's out in Sedona and one weekend she's visiting a commune in Scotland—and it really makes me think, why am I so unadventurous? I have the money to travel now. What excuse do I have to live the same day, every day?"

"I could only imagine. So their daily special today is a grass-fed beef burger with blue cheese, pear, and arugula," I explained undeterred by Jordan's philosophizing.

"You weren't kidding about the burger thing."

"I saw the menu this morning and thought it sounded scrumptious."

We were seated at the same table I sat at with Abby and Heather, which felt predestined. At first I'd found the restaurant's bustling atmosphere disorienting, but now it felt like a blanket of white noise. I wanted to snuggle up in a corner somewhere out of everyone's way.

"I hate to break it to you, man, but I'm not feeling a burger tonight. Is there anything else that's good here?" Jordan asked.

"Beats me."

"What would you recommend here?" Jordan asked the waiter when he came by.

"If I had to pick something... I'd recommend tonight's burger. The chef just designed it only half an hour ago."

"And if we're not feeling a burger?"

"Fish and chips?"

"Sure."

"And would y'all like anything to drink? If you flip over your menu to the back side, we have mocktails, and we also have a full bar."

"This oolong-lychee infusion sounds good."

"And a regular iced tea for me," I said.

When the waiter left, Jordan looked at me with a coy smile.

"How'd you know that was today's burger? You said you saw it on the train here."

"I'm psychic, what can I say?"

"Nobody's psychic. This drink's great," he said between sips of his intriguingly fruity-looking drink. "Tastes like gentrification."

Most of our conversation passed without much effort on my end, not because Jordan talked too much, but because when he wasn't being snarky, he tended to ask questions as if he were interviewing me. When I went silent, he would wait six seconds—no more, no less—before inserting a thought of his own. I searched his face for an explanation, but either he was so unused to social interaction that this came naturally or so accustomed to it he'd grown bored.

"What do you really think of Dennis?" I asked him during a pause.

"Do you always begin conversations this way?"

"We've talked so long, it's hardly the beginning—"

"Nobody asks that sort of question unless it's the conversation they've been waiting for the entire night. People like Dennis I can hang out with easily: I speak their language. But when I listen to him, I can't help but feel the same superiority he feels over me." He dipped a French fry in vinegar and took a bite.

"I think Dennis is just a small-town boy at heart. He's harmless."

"He gawks at Abby and her hot takes like he's pondering a topiary in the Tuileries. I don't care if he grew up in the boonies, he has no reason to be so fragile when people counteract his worldview. The irony's that his idol, Troy Bentley, is so big-city that Dennis probably has more in common with Abby than with him."

"You had that ready to go, didn't you?"

"I sure did. Your turn to say something, now that we're away from prying eyes."

"Want a really big secret?"

"Spill."

I cleared my throat. "I'm trapped in a time loop, where I've relived this Friday at least twenty, thirty times. That's how I knew what today's burger was."

"That's pure fiction."

The waiter came by to drop off the check.

"That's Matthew, he's going to Chicago this weekend to see the art museum, and he's planning on quitting soon because he wants to spend more time with his boyfriend."

Matthew looked at me aghast.

"You knew that! He must've told you that!" Jordan said.

"He didn't..." Matthew said, slamming down the check. He lingered a few feet away, waiting for my next magic trick.

"And I don't know much about you, but I know that you think Hong Kong would be great for Infinitech to invest in because of the Milk Tea Alliance."

"That's right! An upwardly mobile—"

"—democratically aspirational middle class is great for the economy," we said simultaneously.

"I believe you. Wow, that must suck. How many times now have you had to relive that presentation to Mr. Robinson in order to get it right?"

"Too many, too many times."

"That sucks, but every cloud has a silver lining. The lottery had its drawing at noon today, with almost a billion in the pool for the winner. Half of that isn't a billion, but it's enough for a night on the town, wouldn't you say?"

"I hadn't thought of that. What were the numbers?"

"Let's see... 1, 9, 8, 7, 82."

The next morning, I boarded the train with a new smile and the location of the nearest Dunkin' Donuts firmly in mind.

"...you don't look like you'd have a tattoo," Dennis said to Abby.

"Hey kids! Who wants to buy some lottery tickets on the way to work?" I interrupted.

"Troy Bentley says that only poor people buy lottery tickets."

"Just to spite him, I'm gonna buy a ticket," Abby said, a wicked glint in her eye.

Abby and I took a detour when we got off the train, walking past crowds of slacks and pantsuits to a Dunkin' Donuts a few short blocks away.

"Don't take my word for it, but these numbers are a sure win," I said, and I whispered her the five winners.

"If this wins, I owe you a drink," she promised.

Just after noon, Abby knocked on my door and let herself in. Her face said it all. I gave her a fist-bump.

"How does Nostromo sound? And I believe you owe me a drink."

Abby nodded, her eyes misty—I didn't think she loved Italian food that much.

"I'll book us a table at seven."

Abby was still working in my office, if work was showing me Bay Area real estate she could finally afford, when Mr. Ryerson came by. If I were her and I had a life ahead of me, I'd have skipped town as soon as I'd won, but I guess she had company loyalty.

"Hey Mike, how's it going?" Mr. Ryerson asked.

"Better than ever! Abby's been helping me with this proposal—I feel like I have a winning lottery ticket with this one."

Mr. Ryerson took the proposal and leafed through.

"I like how you used the heavy-stock paper. This is good stuff! I think this shows how you've taken feedback well and grown in your core knowledge areas. I can tell graphic design is your passion."

"Thanks, Jim."

"It looks like you two are hard at work, so I won't keep you. Oh, just one more thing: that lipstick, not to be too prying, reminds me of one my wife bought recently—did you get it at Saks?"

"No, but thanks," Abby said with a fatigued smile.

"Our wedding anniversary's coming up and I'd better buy her something. Being a stay-at-home mom's rough, especially when your daughter's Jennifer. Good luck, Mike."

I expected Abby to complain about Mr. Ryerson's question, but she was clearly busy. Abby had mentioned how she was looking for a house big enough to let her parents move in, which was really a genial thing to do. I hadn't ever looked for a house, but I imagined it was difficult.

Later that day, I strode into Mr. Robinson's office believing the odds were finally in my favor.

"I have an offer you can't refuse," I said to him, handing him a copy of my report even though I already knew he had a copy.

"I've read your report, Mike, and it's tempting, but if you're asking me 'deal or no deal,' don't count your chickens so soon."

"It's actually simple," I explained while pouring myself some of his whiskey. "I won the lottery today. A third of the total pot, after tax, is enough for me to never work another day in my life. You let me lead this Hong Kong project or I quit."

"If I were you, I'd quit anyway. Ditch your dress shoes and go travel the world. Don't start a business—you'll lose it all. Invest it somewhere safe and take what's come to you. Here's a card for my financial advisor. He'll get you set up right."

"Do you really mean it?"

"Yeah, I mean it. I can read it in your face that you're telling me the truth." He took my report, flicked a switch behind his desk, and fed my baby to the paper shredder. "I'll have them hang a portrait of you in Hong Kong."

I shook his hand and left. Perhaps I was a bit too confident.

Abby and I, both strutting like peacocks, walked up to Nostromo at the same time as Dennis and Michelle. I think he could read in our faces that there was something we hadn't yet told him.

"Mike Burbank and Abby Ji? What a small world, running into you two! What are you doing here?"

"We have something to tell you," Abby said teasingly.

"I don't see wedding bands, so tell me. Make my day."

"We won the lottery!"

"Congratulations!" Michelle exclaimed. She was going to say something else if Dennis didn't give her a mean look.

"Good for you. Let's get our table, Michelle," he said, and he stormed inside. Michelle followed obediently. It was a sign of a mean person, I thought, to not be able to share in another person's joys when they were so genuine. When cornered, Dennis was like a chained dog: all bark, no bite, mistaking people's fear for respect.

After a few minutes of idle chatter about all the things we could do that we never could do before, the conversation turned to the inevitable:

"You know, Mike, you're the most depressed lottery winner I've ever met. What do you know I don't?" Abby asked. She was paranoid, but that proved her intelligence.

"Do you want the truth?"

"I'm not sure I can handle the truth. But spill."

I cleared my throat. "I'm trapped in a time loop, where I've relived this Friday at least twenty, thirty times. That's how I knew."

"If you've been stuck in a time loop, surely you must know something about me. Tell me something you know about me that I haven't told you." She took a sip of her martini and pushed the bone marrow appetizer toward me.

"You have a tattoo on your right ankle. A butterfly, from a Chinese story about a man who dreamed he was a butterfly."

"That's impressive, but kinda shallow. I was thinking something more profound."

"Uhh... you hate Dennis?"

"Come on, everyone knows that!"

"Your lipstick is from a guy you used to know."

"That's just gossip."

"Tell me something more interesting then."

Abby cleared her throat. "I miss the ocean, and the first thing I'm doing tomorrow morning is flying to LA. I admire Jordan's volunteer group and their accomplishments, and would join if it didn't mean I'd have to hang out with him. I've started watching Chinese historical dramas just to hear my own language. I hate how this place turns people like me into Stepford wives. Infinitech's work culture turns guys into ravenous wolves, and our entire business model is a thinly-disguised ambition of world domination. I want to find love, but my only options around here are college students or my coworkers. There's nothing else to do here but get drunk or play Dance Dance Revolution. I'm grateful I've won the lottery because I can finally afford the life I want to have without having to sell my soul for it."

"That's a lot, Abby, but I'm glad you shared."

"I can tell you anything, because as soon as that clock hits midnight, I won't remember what I've said."

"But I'll remember."

"Maybe you'll take my side on the train ride to work now when Dennis micro-aggresses me to death."

We stayed long enough with our drinks and banalities to watch Dennis and Michelle finish their date. Neither of them paid us any heed, though by Dennis's hurried walk I imagine he had other things on his mind. It served him right for listening to Troy Bentley. I'd even hope it would spur a bit of self-reflection, imagining all he had lost because of his poor judgment.

"So what happens when the loop resets?" Abby asked.

"I don't know what you mean. I go to bed and wake up to Dolly Parton."

"So is it exactly at midnight, or is it possible to stay up and beat the clock?"

"You know, I haven't tried."

"Let's stay up until midnight and see what happens."

"Sure, but what would we do?"

"I don't know, we just won the lottery. We could walk around campus downtown, head to one of our places, we could do anything we want. TGIF. Seize the day."

"That would be fun if I didn't just stuff myself with carbs. They make me drowsy. I'm going to go back to my place. You're free to join me, or enjoy the rest of your evening unshackled from your coworkers."

"Wherever you go, I go."

So it was decided that my evening wasn't over and that I'd have a visitor. I was fastidious with my cleaning at home, though I can't say I was expecting guests. As long as she didn't see my unmade bed, I would be fine.

I think Abby was expecting something more than an apartment on the dustier side of town, with not much furniture besides a gray couch, a mismatched armchair, and a TV partially propped up by magazines. I didn't spend much waking time here, and what time I spent at home I spent at the couch or at my gaming desk in the corner.

"Cashews?" I offered her from a jar in my cabinet.

"I'm good for now."

"Chess?" I asked, pulling out a chess set I'd picked up at a thrift sale.

"You really don't have guests over often, do you?"

"Welcome to my life."

Abby sat down in my armchair.

"What's on TV?"

"Are you a Seinfeld fan?"

"More than I'm a chess fan."

I didn't get what kept Abby around besides wanting to know what would happen at midnight. Seinfeld was funny, but I imagined her original plans for that night were something a bit more energetic. I could use a bit of dancing, just to keep my blood flowing, but the laugh track kept me awake.

"I hope you've enjoyed this very long night," I said to her a few minutes before midnight. "I must be boring you to death."

"You helped me win the lottery. I owe you one, and I'm grateful that you've let me repay my debt by watching sitcoms in this comfy armchair."

"I had it treated when I bought it to make sure there weren't any bedbugs."

Abby leapt up, then moved to the opposite end of my couch.

"They're gone, I said!"

"One minute left, by my count," she said. "Any last words?"

"Want some whiskey?"

"You betcha."

I ran to pour us two glasses.

"To new beginnings," she said.

"To new beginnings," I said back, and we drank our whiskey.

I woke up suddenly, as if my alarm had woken me from a dream. The faint sensation of whiskey in my mouth didn't prevent the inevitable realization that I was penniless and it was Friday.

Sometimes in my longer dreams, I'd begin so joyous in my fantasy realm of magical powers or earthly delights, savoring every happy feeling—and suddenly I'd lose all that had made the dream so great while still being trapped inside. I'd run around looking for the people who'd disappeared and the power I'd wielded, but I'd only have memories of the things I'd felt. There was something thrilling about those kinds of forbidden feelings that could only live between dream and reality, how they trick you into believing they're real in the moment until you wake up and see them as the illusions they truly are.

I still dreamed between Fridays, that last night aside, and I thought while walking to work that perhaps this was all just a dream.