Samuel Reed Kept an Old Wooden Bat Behind the Pantry Door for Twenty Years
She worked it out of her coat pocket and laid it on the arm of the sofa.
The paper was soft from being handled.
Twelve hundred dollars, taken out on November twelfth at the branch on Route 9.
Under that, the balance read eighteen dollars and forty cents.
“That’s my money,” she said.
“It has my name on the account.”
“Then why was it folded up in your coat?”
She picked up the coffee and didn’t drink it.
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