I signed the blue withdrawal slip with the bank pen chained to the counter.

Next to my elbow sat a plain white hospital envelope holding seventy-five twenty-dollar bills saved from my weekend diner shifts.

“That check is for forty thousand,” Mrs.

Albright said, sliding it across the wood along with my savings passbook.

“Are you two buying farm equipment?”

“Property,” I said.

She peered over her glasses, waiting for a road name or a family name, but I picked up the blue check and slipped it into my coat pocket.

“You count that cash before you walk out,” she added, nodding at the white envelope, which smelled faintly of fryer oil.