The week before, Fiona at the downtown branch had already confirmed that the joint account held less than fifty dollars.

I laid the roll on the paper napkin and watched a spot of grease seep into the grain.

After thirty seconds of silence, the phone screen faded to black.

Then a second message notification flashed across the top of the screen.

By noon I was sitting on a green-painted iron bench in a public garden near the river.

Water splashed from the middle of a stone fountain, landing in steady beats against the rim.

The second message wasn’t an email from my mother.