Fine was easier than saying: I am tired of feeling nervous in my own kitchen. Fine was easier than explaining the low, persistent unease that had been following me from room to room for the past several months, sitting across from me at mealtimes, waiting beside my bed when I turned out the light at night.
I slid my identification across the counter.
“I’d like to open a new account,” I said.
Carla glanced at her screen, then back at me. There was no alarm in her face, but there was attention.
“Is there a problem with the current one?”
Voir la suite sur la page suivante:
