By four that afternoon, Clara was sitting next to me on the green wooden porch glider with a cold glass of sweet tea.

“Maple Street’s four blocks straight back behind the public library,” Clara said, leaning in until her shoulder brushed mine.

“My older brother lived on Maple for twelve years before he sold his lot and moved off to Canton.”

I unzipped my handbag, took out Donald’s folded printout, and spread it flat across her knees.

Clara smoothed her cotton skirt with both hands, settled her reading glasses on her nose, and ran a finger down the column of monthly electronic transfers.

“This routing code doesn’t belong to any bank doing business in Oakridge,” Clara said, her voice falling to a tight, secretive whisper.