“The bank gave me exactly what I asked for.

It’s in the back of my truck.”

“Then go get it.”

“It isn’t ready yet.”

“It’s just money.”

“It isn’t ready,” he repeated, and went into the office and pushed the door shut with his shoulder instead of his hand.

I stood there in the smell of hot rubber and old grease.

Through the window I watched him pick up the sandwich, take a single bite, and set the rest back on the wax paper.