The woman on the phone was kind.
She asked security questions I could answer and one I couldn’t.
“The email on file is kyle.cole@—”
“Change it,” I said. “To mine.”
“And the phone number.”
“And the password.”
“All of it.”
“Ma’am, is there a concern about—”
“Not yet,” I said. “Just mail me the statements.”
They came on Monday.
Twelve envelopes.
I didn’t open them right away.
I made coffee first.
Two creams.
I put the envelopes in a row on the table and looked at them the way I used to look at a chart before a shift.
You don’t rush a chart.
The chart will tell you what happened.
You just have to let it.
I sat at my kitchen table with Ray’s reading glasses and a yellow highlighter.
Thirty-four years of reading charts.
You learn to find the thing that doesn’t belong.
It took me eleven minutes.
