“Now I will show you to the ropes.” She handed me a piece of paper full of boxes: Name of client. Name of account. Relevant persons. Level of risk. The biggest one said: Resolution?

My job was basically running a computer program to make sure all the rich guys who had money in our bank weren’t criminals. I typed their names into a database and then filled out a form if anybody came up as a hit. “It’s very simple,” said Sylvia. “But sometimes you get a mystery.”

A man in a steel-gray suit and purple silk shirt introduced himself. This was Stan. He worked in the cubicle next to mine. “I’m a soprano fag,” he said, right off the bat. He’d been one of the performers at the Excalibur casino, musical numbers and knight fights, but he’d gotten too old or too tired and he’d stayed unemployed for too long, running up credit-card debt. Now he was trying to get himself out of the hole.

“A lot of us owe money,” he said, sweeping his arm to show the whole dim room. I imagined the scene like a musical number in an old movie: everyone turning to look at me all at once, nodding sadly in the same rhythm. “What’s your story?”

“Just trying to get my life on track,” I said. “That’s all.”

“Good for you,” he said. He had a loud voice, but there was something quiet about him, too. He knew when to stop asking questions.

I ran names all morning, but no one came up hot. I knocked a jar of paper clips onto the floor and felt like a fool, crouching on the scratchy rug to pick them up, glancing over my shoulder to see if anyone was watching. I liked having my own file drawers, a space for the work I’d done, and the laminated security pass that Sylvia dropped on my desk. “Your clearance,” she said, like we were spies.

By twelve-thirty, the place had emptied out. This was lunch. Everybody walked past with determined expressions. Where were they going? I called Abe on his office number. From my desk, I only had to dial an extension. I pulled out a small stack of menus from my top drawer, a few local restaurants I’d passed.

He picked up after one ring. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I said. “I was wondering if you wanted to get lunch.”

“Oh,” he said. “I don’t really take lunch breaks.”

“Why did you think something was wrong?”

“I just—I hoped everything was okay.”

“It is.”

“Good.”

“How are you?”

“I’m fine, Tilly. But I should probably go.”

He didn’t call me Mom, never had, but there was a sting every time I heard him say something else. Which was silly. I’d called my mother Lucy since I left home, but I’d always wished—for my own sake, for hers—that it would feel more unnatural than it did.

I went out and bought a sandwich wrapped in plastic, brought it back to my desk, and kept working through the afternoon.