By 9:17 that morning, everything was normal.
Then the boy walked in.
He couldn’t have been older than seven. Small shoulders. A faded gray T-shirt. Sneakers with one lace dragging against the floor. He held a brown envelope with both hands, as if it were heavier than paper had any right to be.
No parent. No guardian.
No fear.
At first, no one knew what to do with him.
Customers glanced down, then away. Security noticed him but didn’t move. Children didn’t usually walk into Preston National Bank alone, especially not the downtown flagship branch, where the private wealth clients entered through a separate door and ordinary customers spoke in lowered voices. The boy stepped straight to Teller Window Four.
Everett Price was working that station.
Everett had been with the bank for eleven years, long enough to become comfortable with dismissing people before they opened their mouths. He looked over the counter, saw the boy’s worn clothes, and sighed before asking the first question.
“What is this?”
