“That came out wrong.”

The bracelet had been sitting in the window on a velvet stand with a card that read one of a kind.

The application was a single page.

Julian had printed his own name and his own birth date across the top, and in the box labeled account holder, he had written mine.

My address ran down the left side.

My phone number.

My date of birth again, in handwriting that wasn’t his, trying its best to pass for mine.