Kyle looked from the back door of the shop to the front window. The space was measurably smaller than that of the adjoining bank, and more than any vague feelings or intuitive impressions he might have, it was the concrete reality of this demonstrable fact that left him feeling troubled. This kind of thing was supposed to happen on the pages of the novels that he stocked, not in real life, next to his store in downtown Montgomery in the middle of a workday.

The bell over the door rang as Gil walked in, sorting through a handful of envelopes before presenting a small stack to Kyle. “How’re things?” the mailman asked.

“The new bank,” Kyle said. “Do you deliver there before me or after?”

“Depends on the week,” Gil told him. “I like to vary the route.” He tapped his forehead with the remaining envelopes in his hand. “Keeps the mind sharp. Staves off Alzheimer’s.”

“You get any vibes off the place? Notice anything weird?”

“It’s bigger than it should be.”

Kyle pointed at the mailman. “Exactly!”

“Optical illusion, I assume. You know, my wife and I were on vacation one time and stopped by this place called the Mystery Shack. It was built on a slant, and things rolled uphill, and all the measurements inside there were wrong. They had a room that was bigger than it was supposed to be.”

“But this isn’t some tourist trap trick. It’s a bank.”

“I know, but same theory, I presume.”

Kyle shook his head. “I don’t like it.”

“Isn’t that your bank?”

“Me? No.”

“Well, I moved my account there, and let me tell you, they know how to treat a customer right. And you have to admit, it’s kind of revitalized the downtown.”

Kyle nodded distractedly, noncommittally, and Gil waved the mail in his hand in a goodbye gesture. “See you tomorrow.”

“See you.” He watched the mailman pass in front of his window, heading toward the bank. He had always liked Gil, had always enjoyed talking to him, but he’d cut off today’s conversation as soon as he learned that the mailman had an account with First People’s. It made no sense, but he had to admit that he thought a little bit less of Gil than he had before—and perhaps did not like him quite as much. Was this a harbinger of the future? he wondered. Was the town going to start squaring off: people who supported the bank against people who didn’t?

The thought did not seem as ridiculous as it should have, and as a young couple he didn’t recognize walked into the bookstore, Kyle looked at the wall opposite him and wondered, if he put his ear to the plaster, would he still hear that low creepy laughter? Would someone whisper his name?

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