“I have nineteen weeks left in this pregnancy,” I said.

“Then you have nineteen weeks before they try to claim you’re penniless,” Chloe said, writing a direct phone number in the margin of her pad.

“How much money do you have in your personal checking account today?”

“Four hundred and twelve dollars,” I said.

“Then don’t spend another cent until I check these bank transfer numbers against the state registry,” Chloe said.

The fan belt on my 1998 blue sedan squeaked twice before I shut off the engine in the municipal parking lot on Oak Street at a quarter to one.