The market’s bank statement showed twenty-two dollars missing from our weekly deposit.

I set the yellow paper on a crate of red apples and went back to stacking cans of tomato soup on the middle shelf.

The morning sun slanted through the front windows, catching the dust drifting in the air.

Eleanor stood behind the front register, counting the morning cash tray.

Her boots shifted on the scuffed linoleum, a sound I had known for forty years.

She separated the five-dollar bills from the tens and smoothed them flat.

“Listen here, Ellie,” I said.

“The bank numbers don’t match up this morning.”

“Now let’s take a breath,” Eleanor said.

“You always fret when December comes around.”

She wiped the glass counter twice with her yellow rag.

“The January transfer is four weeks away, Arthur,” she said.

“We have almost thirty thousand saved.

We just need to pull a little more from the holiday sales, maybe run a special on the winter stock.”

I rubbed my thumb against my gold wedding ring.

I looked at the rows of canned goods I had been organizing since six in the morning.

“We sent forty thousand dollars to Oakridge last year,” I said.

“We send it every single January.”