I set the cardboard box on the back seat of my sedan and shut the door.

At eleven that morning I drove down South Boulevard to the credit union branch and parked by the side entrance.

The lobby was quiet at that hour and smelled of old paper and fresh carpet shampoo.

An older man stood at the counter filling in a deposit slip.

I went up to the second teller window and set my passbook on the dark marble ledge.

The teller, a young woman whose brass name tag said Brenda, looked up with a polite smile.