Wabasha Street
Caden
The bank opened at nine.
We were there at eight fifty-three because Aria had been awake since seven and her version of waiting patiently was arriving seven minutes early and standing on the pavement in the cold looking at the door like she could make it open faster through sustained eye contact.
I stood beside her with coffee I’d brought from home in two travel cups and said nothing about the eye contact because I understood it.
Twenty-two years of something was inside that building.
David was on her other side, hands in his coat pockets, quieter than he’d been all week. He’d barely spoken over dinner the night before, not withdrawn, just internal, processing in the way I was learning was his version of preparing for something significant.
Thomas was behind us,
