I pulled into an empty space at the far corner of the bank parking lot and shut off the engine.

The receipt was printed on thin thermal paper that felt slick between my thumb and forefinger.

In the lower right corner, under the wire transfer confirmation number, Greg had typed the name of the authorizing representative: Arthur Vance.

By two in the afternoon, I had three years of our joint federal tax returns spread across the family room desk beside a cold cup of tea.

My daughter Sophie called on speakerphone from her dorm room at the state university, the low hum of her desk fan buzzing behind her voice.