“Why didn’t Dale just give you a paper check like he always does?” he asked.

“Because he canceled my direct deposit Friday morning,” I said.

“Did he want you back at the garage?”

“He wanted me to come take actual cash from him in person,” I said.

“He wanted to watch me haul it.”

I shut off the tap and dried my wet hands on my apron, but the black oil stayed buried in the creases of my palms.

The red metal coffee can sat on the counter by the bread box, its lid gone and its rim dented from years out in the garage.