“How many are still out on the driveway?” Noah asked.

“Ninety-one thousand five hundred of them,” I said.

“We can’t wipe off ninety thousand coins with paper towels, Mom.”

“I know we can’t,” I said.

At nine thirty I pulled my station wagon into the drive-through lane at Oak Creek First Bank on Main Street.

Marge Miller appeared behind the thick glass, her silver hair done up in a tight roll.

She reached over and pressed the talk button on her desk.