No outside party can touch these funds without your signature.”

“Thank you,” I said.

I drove back to Monica’s house on Elm Street and sat down at the wooden dining table by the front window at noon.

My phone vibrated four times against the polished oak.

The first photo from my mother showed the silver bracelet I had brought from Seattle lying on a scratched gray customer service counter under harsh overhead lights.

The second photo showed the unopened camera lens box I had bought for Chelsea next to a clerk’s hand holding a red return slip.