“He ordered it direct from the main branch in Terre Haute,” Irene said.

“He wanted those bags all ready.”

“Because he was mad I was leaving,” I said.

Irene looked across the street at the bank building, her hands running over her coat pockets again.

“Dale carries things around inside him, Becky.

Things that started a long time before you ever ran his front desk.”

By one o’clock I was back at my kitchen table with a yellow legal pad and a black ballpoint.

Noah sat in the wooden chair across from me, tugging at his socks as he watched me write numbers down.