“The line tied to my Social Security number,” I said.

“The one with the forty-thousand-dollar credit ceiling.”

Mark scoffed, letting out a short, dry laugh that sounded practiced and smooth.

“Small branch banks have system errors all the time, so don’t go making a mountain out of a clerk’s typo,” he said.

“The teller told me two secondary cards were mailed to our home address eleven months ago,” I said.

Mark stood up from his chair, his knee knocking against the desk drawer with a sharp wooden thud.