I counted slow, and every band I slipped off was a small event — some of the bills so old and soft they’d gone the color of ash, some creased into thirds the way you’d fold a bill to hide it in a hurry.

It was not the money of a woman who’d forgotten a grocery run.

It was the money of a woman who had folded and hidden and saved with a patience no forgetful person possesses, and Lonnie knew it, and I knew it, and the word forgot sat there on the counter between us as false as anything either of us had ever said.

Before he could reach for the envelope, I picked it up and opened it.