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There is a video, locked away in a safe hidden behind an anonymous vaguely impressionist picture. The combination on the lock is zero zero zero, because no one could forget it and no one else would ever guess. The safe hasn't been opened in years.

The video begins with static, and then it cuts to the last few seconds of the Maury Povich show. A woman sobs uncontrollably in Maury's arms. Maury watches a young man prance off the stage, waving his arms in the air in some kind of triumph. There are then silent shots from throughout the show, tinted purple, most featuring yelling and finger wagging as Maury tells us he'll keep the viewer updated. Then the show ends and the midday Lottery selection begins.

There is a short woman, thirty-five or forty years old, with long straw hair being blown in waves behind her head. She smiles at the camera, a bit too much, and it is clear she isn't practiced at appearing on screen. She shuffles awkwardly on her feet, looks sideways as if unsure of a cue, and then begins speaking.

She welcomes the viewer to the midday Lottery drawing, and then announces that she will pick the Play Three numbers for this, the ninth of June, a Thursday. She looks down at the machine in front of her, where yellow balls marked with black number dance in separate containers. She pushes a switch on the far left side of the screen. A ball shoots to the top and she turns it, her too long fingernails in the center of the picture.

"Zero," she announces. She presses the next switch.

"Zero," in the same tone of voice, so much so that it could have been the same recording played twice. She moves over to the next switch.

"Zero," again. "The Play Three number for Thursday is zero, zero, zero." Only upon repeating the number does she recognize the strangeness. She smiles a bit, exhales into the microphone pinned to her collar.

She moves over to the second machine, identical to the first except for an extra container at the far right side of the screen. She moves over to the first switch on the second machine.

"Today's Play Four number is." She presses the switch. We see the number immediately. It points directly at the camera. Her hand moves to straighten the ball, but then she realizes there is no need.

"Zero," she says. The camera pans to the second switch. For just a brief moment, so quickly that it is difficult to notice the first time one watches, her hand pauses over the switch. She summons the strength to press it. It is another zero. She pauses.

"Zero," she finally says. Her voice catches, as if she has just swallowed air. The camera pans as scheduled to the third switch. The woman does not move. There is tense whispering. The camera shakes momentarily, as if someone has crashed into it. The woman stumbles into the shot, as if pushed or perhaps simply dizzy. She grabs the chute into which the next ball will ascend to regain her balance. She does not hesitate over the switch, but her hand quivers. The third ball rises.

"It's an eight," someone whispers from behind the camera. Only the bottom of the number is seen, a graceful curve.

"No," someone else says, in correction. And then, a third voice, "No!" Horror.

The woman turns the number towards the lens. She doesn't say anything. It is a zero. She moves over to the fourth switch. More whispering. The last word of a sentence, "already!" shouted clearly.

"Zero," the woman says. The camera follows her to the fourth switch. There is a cut that shouldn't be. The woman is looking to her right, terrified. She receives instructions and nods. Someone else gets her attention on the other side, and she suddenly looks uncertain and afraid again. A wire drops from the top of the set, over her left shoulder and bounces. All this in a split second, and then the director cuts back to the fourth switch, where the woman's hand waits, steady now, grabbing the entire switch, hiding it from the camera.

"Don't press it!" someone screams. There is a scuffling sound from behind the camera. The camera shakes again. The woman now seems determined. She presses the switch with determination.

The final ball rises. There is a gasp. Quick cut to the wide shot, the camera swings wildly, then points to the ceiling. One second, then back to the fourth ball, which again displays its zero directly at the camera, proudly, as if bragging. The woman's hand flies out of the shot, as if trying to grab onto something, being dragged away, then she quickly reenters. Wide shot, focused on the woman, still bouncing after being yanked to where it should have been. She closes her eyes and braces herself, as if expecting to be tackled.

"Today's Play Four number is zero [a door is slammed], zero, zero [a dull thud, the woman barely flinches], zero." There are more lines, but she doesn't read them. Seven zeroes sit in a row. Her hair is now still. There is another thud. A boom mic swings wildly a foot above the woman's head. There is a quick cut to a black screen, three seconds, and then the beginning of a syndicated game show, and then the tape ends, the top of the screen turning to static before the bottom half pulls away, and then nothing on the last forty-odd minutes of tape.