I dialed the international code and the direct line for the First National Bank branch in Oak Ridge.

I listened to the static until the automated greeting picked up.

The system asked for my ten-digit account number.

I punched it in on the sticky plastic keypad.

“First National, Oak Ridge branch,” a voice said.

“Gregory speaking.”

Gregory was the senior branch manager.

I’d sat across his big mahogany desk when Kendra and I opened the joint accounts eight years earlier, just after Haley started second grade.