By a quarter past eleven that morning, the autumn fog had burned off over the brick storefronts along Main Street.

I went into the First Community Bank branch and waited behind the brass velvet rope until the middle teller window was free.

Donald, the bank’s vice president, stood behind his desk counter in a tailored gray wool suit and a dark blue tie.

“Morning, Penelope,” Donald said, nudging his wire-rimmed glasses up with the knuckle of his thumb before glancing down at my paycheck.

“Are we putting the high school registrar check into joint account four-eight-two today?”