“I kept this tucked behind the third register drawer back in ’84,” Irene said.

Her voice was slow and gentle, with that soft Midwestern lilt.

She smoothed the sheet flat across her knees.

The paper was dry and thin, gone dark yellow along the top edge where the light had hit it for thirty-four years.

“Look right here,” she said, tapping her thumb on the middle of the page.

“He was eight years old when I paid off his cheese sandwich balance, Becky.”

I leaned in to read the ink.