In weekday lunch traffic, the drive from Elm Street to the bank took twenty minutes without stopping.

I opened my paper envelope and counted the cash I had left.

Ten fifty-dollar bills sat on the card table in two small rows.

Five hundred dollars was everything I had until Martha could get our emergency support hearing in front of a judge.

I slipped forty dollars into my pocket, wrapped the blue ticket in a clean tissue, and picked up my coat.

“Are you walking down to the bus stop, Audrey?” the baker asked as I passed his kitchen door.