Sheila, the senior teller who had worked the front window since I was in middle school, wiped her reading glasses on her blue cardigan before typing my primary account number into her terminal.

“You have a forty-thousand-dollar credit ceiling on this line, Nora,” she said.

“That ceiling was five thousand dollars when I opened it six years ago,” I said.

“I haven’t used that card since we bought the seed drill for the west pasture.”

Sheila tapped her keypad, her long nail making a steady clicking sound against the gray plastic.

“The limit was raised eleven months ago through the online portal, and two secondary cards were issued under your primary identity.”

“Two extra cards?” I asked.