With one quick, steady motion, he brought the stamp down in the middle of the audit page, sealing the verified record under my business account name.

The sharp, heavy thud of the stamp echoed off the office walls.

The bank manager slid the paper into a sleeve and pushed it across the desk.

“This copy is for your records, Mrs.

Carter,” he said.

I slid the stamped audit document into my tote bag next to the blue folder.

My black walking boot felt heavy against the linoleum as I got up from the chair, but my right ankle held steady inside the rigid plastic frame.

Ethan took my elbow on the way out to the parking lot, his thumb trailing over his key ring, while my father waited by the driver’s door of his gray sedan.