Maya worked her fist against her cheek and went back to sleep.

I taped the box shut and wrote ATTIC on the side in black marker.

Then I checked the clock over the stove.

The bank opened at ten.

By ten thirty I had Maya in the stroller and the child support check in the diaper bag, and the doors of the Lake Street branch slid open in front of us.

Clara, the teller who had handled our accounts for six years, leaned over the stroller first.

“She’s gotten bigger since the last time,” Clara said.