“I get that a lot,” I answer in a throatier version of my voice, one that I assume sounds like my mother —or at least someone older than fifteen. I offer no excuse. Sometimes the less you say, the better the odds are of getting what you want.

“Hair looks better the way it is now,” he says.

I wonder if he’s hitting on me and if he is, he is breaking the law. I am underage, no matter what that ID card states.

He leads me to a doorway and turns to face me. “Passcode?”

“What?” I ask.

“You need to enter your passcode,” he says, his eyes riveted to mine.

I feel sweat collect on the back of my neck. Passcode? I don’t have any passcode. His nicotine-stained index finger points at a keypad.

I think hard and fast. Now my face is hot. It must be red. Great. Nothing’s coming to me and I think Unibrow knows it.

He shifts his weight. “If you don’t have the passcode, you can’t go inside.”

Think. Think.

“You only have three chances and if you don’t get it right, we’ll need to arrange for the bank manager to create you a new one. He’s a real stickler for security around here.”

I know I’ll like the bank manager even less than Unibrow, who, by the way, is now in my personal top five of all annoying people.

I punch in my brother’s birthday.

“Let’s go see the manager,” he says. A slight smile on his face indicates that he’s happy that I can’t remember the code. He must want to go on a smoke break, because he smells like an ashtray to me.

Then it comes to me. My mind flashes to the day that my mom and dad set up the router for our internet connection. The password they used was the same one they used on everything— whenever anything required some kind of security code.

“Wait!” I say. “I have it.”

My finger goes to the keypad:

LY4E1234

Love you forever, and a digit for each member of our family.

A green light flickers on the keypad display.

* * *