Blue cloth cover.

Small brass clasp, still closed.

No name on the outside.

No account number.

A strip of stitching along the spine that had been coming undone for years.

I sat on my heels beside my grandmother’s grave with a dirty bank book in my lap, and I want to record exactly what I thought, because it is embarrassing and because it is the actual thing.

I thought: he’ll find out I took it.