“I’m not supposed to print history for anyone but the account holder.”

“She’s standing right here.”

Martha signed the grocery slip in her small, careful letters and pushed it across.

“The girl is only doing her job.”

The printer hummed under the counter.

Deena set two pages face down and slid them to Martha, not to me, and Martha handed them over without looking at them.

We were on the sidewalk before I let myself read the second page.

The withdrawal sat in the middle of June, on a Tuesday, with a branch number in the corner I didn’t recognize and a signature in the reference box small enough to be anybody’s.