My own neck was bare.

My thirty-second birthday had passed nine weeks ago in September, and Julian had brought home a small red box of dark chocolate truffles from the grocery store down the road.

I refolded the jeweler’s receipt, slid it back into the white envelope, and put it under the green bank folders exactly where it had been.

At eight thirty the next morning, I dropped Leo off at his elementary school gate and watched him walk toward the glass front doors, his blue backpack bouncing on his small shoulders.

Instead of driving home to clean up the breakfast dishes, I turned the station wagon down Commerce Street and pulled into the paved lot of First Missouri Bank.