The bank’s glass door swung shut behind me at eight thirty on Thursday morning.

Mr.

Vance, the branch manager, offered me a wooden chair across from his dark oak desk.

I laid my Iowa driver’s license, my Social Security card, and our original land deed on his green blotter.

“I’m the sole primary owner on credit account four eight nine two,” I said.

“Yes, Nora,” Mr.

Vance said, clicking his mouse twice.

“You opened this personal line eight years ago.”