Having something happen to them as wonderful as winning a substantial cash prize knocks some people off kilter. In the excitement of meeting with such tremendous good fortune, they neglect to seek out the inevitable downside. But that is not me. I believe in the universal law of ‘Conservation of Luck.’ For every good thing that happens to you, an equal and opposite bad thing will happen too. It’s science.

I’ve never been one of those ‘life is like a box of chocolates’ types. You see, I would genuinely enjoy eating a box of chocolates, maybe even two boxes. Life isn’t like that. Life is more like a box of spinach. It’s something to be endured.

It was thus that I found my state of mind happy, but suspicious, as I pressed the button marked ‘Visitor’ at the main entrance to the offices of Fred’s law firm, midway up a sleek downtown high rise in Los Angeles.

I entered, offered my name and a brief defense of my existence to the receptionist, and took a seat.

It was the sort of modern office that resembled an x-ray image of a traditional office. Every vertical surface — save for the restrooms and a supply closet — was made of glass. It created one of those “everybody can see everybody else” situations so popular with today’s managers, and goldfish.

The receptionist typed something on her computer, and I saw Fred rise from his desk, just on the other side of the conference room. I watched him approach, coming to fetch me.

I greeted him with my warmest smile, which I cannot say was reciprocated. He led me silently back into the crystal labyrinth of hallways and offices, like a helpful Minotaur.

As we approached his office, I noticed that there were two other people already sitting inside. Had Fred botched his schedule and overlapped me with another appointment?

We entered and sat down. I greeted the strangers, hoping to understand why they were in the meeting.

“Hello, hello, everyone,” I said. “And who are you?”

They didn’t respond. They just stared at me blankly, then simultaneously turned their heads to look at Fred.

Their reaction wasn’t simply rude. It was downright creepy.

It was the closest I had ever gotten to real-life zombies.

Fred got right down to business, producing a pile of legal forms. He handed me a printout of the terms and conditions to which I had agreed upon entering the sweepstakes. I gave them a careful read.

“Do I have this straight, Fred? I get fifty million dollars, no strings attached, save for making some public appearances? That is to say, every so often I must allow Grensfeld Industries to show me off like some prize pig, and that’s it?”

“That’s technically correct. No strings are attached by the terms you just reviewed.”

“That’s terrific!”

“But there are still strings attached to the money, just not by the contest. It gets complicated.”

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The law of ‘Conservation of Luck’ was at work. I knew it.

Strings. I hate strings.

“Did you bring the identification I requested?”

I handed Fred a folder I had brought with me. He reviewed the documents inside, then closed it. He eyed me as if studying me. I didn’t like it. Then he spoke.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Will it help me get my money?”

“Yes.”

“Then ask away, Freddy.”

“Don’t call me Freddy.”

“Whoops!”

Fred’s face reddened, revealing his growing irritation with me. He opened his desk drawer and pulled out a folder of his own.

“So you really are Terrence Winkworth, huh? Son of Darren and Amelie Winkworth?”

“Yes,” I replied, for that was — or rather is — my name, and those are my parents’ names.

Fred reached into the folder and pulled out an aerial photograph of a large East Coast estate.

“And is this where you grew up?” Fred asked.

I was shocked and swept away by nostalgia.

“Wow, where on earth did you find that photo? It’s quite old. That was taken before my parents built the third guest house.”

“Guest house? You mean those gigantic things south of the mansion are guest houses?”

“Yep,” I replied.

Fred paused.

“So your parents are on the Forbes magazine list of the richest people in the world, and I found you out in the desert, living in a ratty camper…”

“Hey!” I interrupted sharply, wounded by the description.

“I apologize. I only mean to say that you were living in a camper, which did not appear overly luxurious when I found you. Why? Aren’t you rich already, even before your sweepstakes winnings?”

“Sadly, my parents and I are estranged. They offer me no financial support, and I have been struck from their will. They do not approve of my way of life and I do not approve of their small-minded nature.”

“What is your way of life?”

“Sleeping, mostly. I also enjoy surfing the Internet. That’s just not something my parents will accept. You see, my father believes that idle hands are the devil’s plaything. Only, he is the devil in question. The one thing in life that bothers him is the idea that someone, somewhere isn’t working hard enough to make him money, especially if that someone is me.”

“But you went to Yale.” Fred continued, sounding perplexed.

“Class of 2016.”

“Why? What for?” Fred pressed. “Why are you wasting your life this way?”

I stared at him, annoyed. I felt we were on the verge of exchanging unprintable words again. I paused to regain my composure.

“I believe you lured me here today under the pretense that I would be offered a large sum of money,” I proceeded coldly. “Can I please have it?”

“Perhaps I should interject,” a voice to my side suddenly spoke. It was one of the zombies who had rebuffed my greeting earlier.

They could speak! Or, at least one of them could speak.

The zombie addressing me was a middle-aged man who looked like one of those people you see photographed in advertisements, but not like a fashion model, more like someone who is supposed to represent the everyman, someone magnificently average. The perfect five out of ten.

“I’m Roger Penrose, esquire. I am here on behalf of your parents.”

I recoiled in horror.

“With me is Emily Waters, who is here on behalf of the court.”

“Hello,” zombie number two spoke.

“Nice to meet you,” I replied, with as much enthusiasm as I could muster under the circumstances, which was very little, at all.

Zombie Two was tall and thin, with a resting facial expression like a sphinx, making her utterly inscrutable. Combined with her unblinking stare, she was definitely giving off ‘tough cookie’ vibes.

“What on earth do my parents have to do with any of this?” I demanded of zombie number one…old what’s-his-face, esquire. “How do they even know?”

“I’m afraid they learned that information from me, Terrence,” Fred confessed. “You are a very difficult man to track down. You don’t have an address, you don’t have a phone, and you don’t check your email…”

“I do!”

“O.k., well, you don’t check your email often enough to be found when you are being searched for. So I ran a background check, and contacted your parents to learn your whereabouts.”

My eyes grew wide.

“You didn’t tell my parents about the sweepstakes,” I gasped, in horror. “Please tell me you didn’t.”

There was an awkward moment of silence.

Then the esquire spoke.

“Terrence, have you ever heard of a conservatorship?”