The Photograph of a Newborn in a Yellow Knitted Hat

“No.

First I’m going to the bank.”

Mr.

Davis had been the teller at Oakmont Savings for as long as I could remember.

He wore the same wire glasses he’d worn when Paul and I opened our first joint account, the frames slightly bent at the bridge.

He remembered me, which made it easier.

“As his widow, you have access to the closed accounts,” he said, pulling up the file on his screen.

“What exactly are you looking for?”