“Six hundred dollars,” Arthur said, sliding a crisp business check across the dark wood.

“You can cash it today at the Lancaster branch.”

Nathaniel Whitmore watched the ink dry on the signature.

His watch slid down his right wrist, and he adjusted the gold band against his skin.

“Her back pay was eighteen hundred,” Nathaniel said.

“Eighteen hundred is a fantasy built on unverified site hours,” Arthur said, straightening his silver tie bar with two fingers.

“Six hundred is real money in a mother’s pocket before New Year’s.”