The room smelled of old paper files and lukewarm coffee, and an ancient window air conditioner rattled steadily in its frame.

Sarah Miller, a legal aid attorney with silver-framed glasses, turned the fourth page of my printed credit card statement with a slow, deliberate flick of her thumb.

“As far as the bank is concerned, you’re still legally responsible for the entire eighteen-thousand-dollar balance,” Sarah said, tapping her gold pen against my Social Security number at the top of the master application.

“Even if Mark added those secondary cards without my permission?” I asked, my voice flat and even.