“The regional office sent these extra cases of wrappers three months ago,” Marge said, pushing the boxes across the marble ledge toward me.

“They don’t exist on my branch inventory.”

“Thanks, Marge,” I said.

“Take them before I change my mind,” Marge said, picking her ballpoint back up.

“And don’t you go telling Dale Heckert where they came from.”

By six o’clock my kitchen table was buried under three stacks of blue supply boxes and thousands of brown paper sleeves.

Irene sat across the table from Noah and Lily, her hands moving fast and steady as she dropped fifty shiny pennies into each sleeve and folded the paper ends down flat against the metal.

“Arthur Vance had half his cheese sandwich left over again today,” Noah said, lining up four finished rolls along the edge of the maple tabletop.