Dr. Wilson could feel the heat rushing to his face. “What do you mean, ‘No?’ I demand to see your supervisor!” He shook his head, frustrated. “You know what? I’m closing my accounts. And I’m going to tell your supervisor or manager or whatever-the-hell-he-is exactly why I’m not banking here anymore.” He glanced around the room, searching for someone who looked like he might be in charge. In the quiet of the bank, the other employees had to have heard this loud exchange, but none of them were looking over, all focusing, or pretending to focus, on their work. Even the other tellers were counting money, writing on slips of paper or otherwise engaged.

His teller—V.J.—met his eyes, his gaze hard. “We’re confiscating your car.”

“What?” he exploded.

The teller leaned forward. “Do I stutter?”

“You can’t do that!”

“Guess again.” The teller fixed him with a look of scorn. “Did you even bother reading your terms and conditions? Because if you had, you would know that, should you threaten to terminate any contract or arrangement with The First People’s Bank before the agreed-upon date, which in your case is death, we have the right to impound your assets.”

Dr. Wilson moved over to the next teller window. “Excuse me,” he said to the woman behind the counter.

Without so much as a glance in his direction, she pushed a small placard toward him: Window Closed.

He glanced to his right. His teller—V.J.—had somehow stepped out from behind the counter and was standing there in a fighter’s stance, legs spread, hands balled into fists.

“We’re taking your car. Give me the keys or I’ll kick you in the nuts right here, right now.”

It seemed impossible that any employee of any bank would ever say such a thing, but Dr. Wilson had no doubt that the young man in front of him was willing to carry out that threat. Could he take the teller? Probably. But he was outnumbered here, and engaging in a physical altercation would deny him the high road. With the crazy way this situation was spiraling out of control, he needed to think long-term, to play the long game rather than succumbing to immediate gratification.

“Where’s your supervisor?” he tried one last time.

The teller held out his right hand, palm up. “Keys.”

Other bank employees had stood up from their desks or emerged from behind their teller windows. A man in a well-tailored suit stood in the open doorway of a side office, watching.

“Keys!” the teller demanded.

“I drove here. How am I supposed to get back to my office?”

“Walk, you over-privileged fuck.”

Stunned, Dr. Wilson removed his car key from his key ring and dropped it onto the young man’s palm, striding past him, through the bank and out the door.