Dear Wigleaf,

It's raining here in Reno—always a welcome sight in the desert. I'm in a coffee shop sitting next to a potted monstera plant that's reaching for the sunlight beaming just beyond its reach. A note written from the plant's perspective says, "Please don't water me. I'm well taken care of."

Last week, we went to a hockey game in Stateline, Nevada, a small mountain town that, as the name implies, straddles the border between Nevada and California. We stayed at a casino hotel, and as we walked back to our room, I grabbed a pamphlet about gambling addiction titled When The Fun Stops®. I've seen these pamphlets—the same title and cover image of a setting sun—tucked away in slot machines' shadows since I was a kid dining in casino restaurants.

My dad once let me pull a slot's arm. At maybe three or four years old, I was small enough that I needed a boost to reach it. I lost the quarter he'd wagered, but had the final reel stopped a fraction of a second earlier, I would have hit the jackpot. The pamphlet warns that "young people are also at risk for developing a gambling problem," and though I don't have a problem, I often do fantasize about the satisfying pull of the lever, the numbers and symbols blurring past, the promise that as long as I keep playing, one day, I could win.

Good luck out there,
AnnElise