She touched the edge of the page with one worn finger, tracing the pale blue line near the middle.

The yellow glow from the light pole at the bank came straight through the windshield, lighting up the yellowed 1984 cafeteria ledger page with Dale Heckert’s name in faded blue ink.

At seven on Wednesday morning Paul Vance knocked three times on my front door.

He had a thick accordion file under his left arm and stepped right onto the linoleum without taking off his raincoat.

“I’ve got nineteen minutes before the first morning bus run, Becky,” he said.