The number was ridiculous. Not frightening yet, not even real yet. Just ridiculous in the way a man might feel if someone told him the creek behind his barn had started flowing uphill. Raymond had made every payment. He could see them in his mind, one by one, stacked across decades. Checks written at the kitchen table. Money orders during the rough summer when the soybean price collapsed. Automatic withdrawals after Daniel helped him set up online access, though Raymond never trusted the screen and still printed every confirmation. Twenty-two years. Every month. Never late by more than a few days, and when he had been late, he had paid the fee printed clearly on the statement.
But now the bank said there were discrepancies.
That was the word they used.
Not mistake. Not confusion. Not question.
Discrepancy.
