I picked up the light blue deposit book from the step, lifted the yellow ceramic pot by its heavy side handles, and tucked my new account book into my work jacket pocket.

My phone chimed against the yellow laminate counter at eight minutes past nine in the morning.

Mark’s voice came through the speaker crisp and quick, backed by the soft echo of a carpeted hotel lobby and the far-off rattle of luggage carts on marble.

“Hey, honey, there’s a little swipe glitch with the card reader at the front desk,” he said, his tone light and playful.

“The clerk says there’s an administrative hold on the primary credit line, probably just an automatic security flag because we crossed state lines this morning.”