An hour later I walked into the marble lobby of First Pine National Bank with my grandfather’s mahogany box held under my coat, against my ribs, where it had ridden the whole way like a second heart.

The lobby was nearly empty; it was Christmas, and only a skeleton holiday staff was in.

I gave the young woman at the reception desk my full name.

“I need someone,” I said, “to help me understand what my grandfather left me.”

Ten minutes later, the branch manager, a tired-looking man named Douglas Wright, showed me into his corner office.

He had the pleasant, distracted manner of a man working a holiday shift he would rather not be working — right up until I set the mahogany box down on his desk, and every trace of that manner left his face at once.