The teller at Station Three looked about my age, maybe a little younger.
Her nameplate said Emily.
She gave me a tired but kind smile.
“How can I help you today?”
I placed the card on the counter.
“I need to close this account.”
“Of course.”
Her nails tapped the keyboard softly as she entered the numbers.
She asked for my ID.
I handed it over.
She typed again.
Then she stopped.
Not dramatically.
Just enough that I noticed.
Her fingers hovered over the keys.
“This card has never been used,” she said.
“That’s correct.”
“No transactions at all?”
“No.”
“No ATM balance inquiry, no debit purchase, no transfer request from you?”
“None.”
She looked down at the card again.
The bend in the plastic was visible under the light.
“Do you know when this was issued?”
“Five years ago.”
“Do you know who opened the account?”
“My grandfather, I was told.”
“You were told?”
“My adoptive father gave it to me after my grandfather’s funeral.”
The word adoptive changed something in her face.
Not pity.
Recognition.
