He arrived home to find Sarah already setting the table with paper napkins. He tossed the bag down with a triumphant grin.

"Thought you forgot your wallet," she said, raising an eyebrow.

Five minutes later, Leo slid into the drive-thru lane. He handed the plastic card to the attendant, the transaction clicked through instantly, and the scent of warm buns and savory beef filled his car.

"I did," Leo admitted, "but never underestimate the power of a well-placed gift card."

"I told you I’d get dinner," Leo muttered to himself, thinking of his roommate, Sarah, who was currently back at the apartment celebrating a promotion.

He pulled into a brightly lit Walgreens across the street. He marched past the seasonal decor and found the towering wall of plastic gift cards. His eyes scanned the rows—coffee shops, online retailers, hardware stores—until he spotted the familiar red hat logo. He grabbed a twenty-dollar Arby’s card, paid the cashier, and felt a wave of relief.

The neon glow of the Arby’s sign pulsed against the windshield, a beacon of roast beef and horsey sauce in the late-night drizzle. Inside the car, Leo fumbled through his wallet, finding only a crumpled receipt and three pennies.

He had promised her a feast of Jamocha shakes and curly fries, but his debit card was sitting on his bedside table three miles away. He needed a miracle, or at least a gift card he could buy with the emergency twenty-dollar bill tucked behind his driver's license.