Peanut.

Two thousand twelve.”

I wrote the year on the corner of a grocery receipt.

“And you’re sure she uses it everywhere?”

“I saw her type it.

More than once.”

That answered a small question and opened a far larger one.

My sister, who was being asked to move a hundred and fifty thousand dollars overseas, used one password — a dog’s name and a year, the kind any stranger could guess from a single friendly conversation — for her tablet, her email, and the backup of everything.