Holloway,” she said, taking my Connecticut driver’s license from under the glass partition.

“What can I do for you today?”

“I need printed monthly statements for our joint checking and joint emergency accounts covering the last ninety days,” I said.

“Of course,” she said, her fingers tapping across her keyboard in a quick rhythm.

She looked at her monitor for five long seconds, her lips pressing into a thin line.

She typed three more keys, then leaned her head closer to the screen.

“Is there a problem bringing up the statements?” I asked, leaning toward the glass.