The closing was set for noon.

Sarah Jenkins, my parole officer, came in behind me with her clipboard against her chest.

“You have twenty minutes,” she said.

“Ten is enough.”

I was wearing Arthur’s navy blazer, tight across the shoulders and short in the cuffs.

My own clothes were still in a plastic bag at the motel.

The bank key was in my pocket, flat against my leg.

I kept my hand away from it.