For Seven Years I Sent Forty Thousand Dollars Every January, Until Emma Finally Spoke

At half past eleven, I walked into the Oak Creek Bank branch on Main Street.

The scuffed linoleum floor squeaked under my boots.

Brenda Potts sat behind the third teller window.

She had handled our store accounts since we bought the corner market.

She knew every check I wrote.

“Good morning, Arthur,” she said.

“Do you need change for the registers today?

I have bundles of ones ready.”