Luck, Ned didn’t have it. Neither did his brother, Jim. Come to think of it, nobody in the family was what Ned would call inherently lucky. Unlucky maybe, Ned was the unluckiest of them all, sorry and rusted, holding onto the last scraps of his faded youth. He needed a four-leaf clover or a horseshoe or so many of those other things people were always talking about when they talked about luck. Blind luck, dumb luck, out of luck, that’s what Ned was and Jim, too he presumed.