Tom stood looking across the counter at the teller, a balding man with thick glasses and pinched lips. That face declared Tom was in the wrong. And more, said the face—everything about Tom was wrong. Tom felt the rightness of the judgement, but all he could do was complete the business he had come for. 

He reached into his down jacket and pulled out his driver's license and a cash card, then put them on the counter. "I'd like four-hundred and fifty dollars," Tom said.

"You can't have four-hundred and fifty dollars," the teller said with a snort, looking at the card as though it were a soiled handkerchief.

"Is that over the limit?"

"You can't have a cent. Nothing."

"What? I've done this here many times."

"I don't know about many times, but today you can't." The teller pressed his lips together tighter than before.

"Why not?"

"Because I'm telling you."

"I run a small plumbing business. I need the money. Other than this, I have Social Security—that's it—and I have bills to pay."

"I don't care what you need. Go somewhere else."

"Go somewhere else?" Tom said, his voice rising.

"Excuse me, sir," another man said as he stepped over. Tom recognized him as the branch manager. He looked like the teller's older brother—a little balder, a little heavier—but he had a softer, friendlier manner. He said the machine that processes cash cards was broken. Fortunately, he added, Tom could go to the bank next door, or any bank with a working machine.

"Well why didn't he"—Tom jerked his thumb at the teller, almost yelling—"say that earlier?"

The manager patted the air like he was tamping down Tom's anger.

Tom took half a step toward the manager, then turned and walked out, feeling doubly irritated. Irritated at the teller—that was the first thing. Irritated also with the fumbling old man he did work for sometimes—fixing a broken disposal, or a clogged drain—and who paid him with cash cards that he probably got at the local drug store. Why not a check? Or actual cash? Or why couldn't that old man just step into the twenty-first century and Venmo the payment to him like Tom's other few remaining customers? They were old, too, and could figure it out. And there was more, now that he thought about it. Tom was irritated that somehow when he used the card he felt like an aging chiseler involved in a petty scam. The arrangement was odd and made him feel that way, too. Why should he feel that way? No reason. But he did. And one more thing: he was irritated that four-hundred and fifty bucks mattered so much to him. Sixty-seven years old and the cash mattered. Life-and-death mattered. So how many irritations was that? Four? Five? Hard to keep track. They kept piling up, always.

When Tom left the other bank holding two hundreds and five fifties, he felt a tap on his shoulder. 

Hold up! The thought hit him like a slap. 

But he turned around and there she was—all pressed cotton, green and khaki, short military-style jacket, flat-brimmed hat, silvery hair pulled back. Everything just so. 

Here, all at once, was perfection, and possibility. And another chance. Redemption, like the card. 

It was possible. And maybe more. They'd spoken last week for the first time near the Liberty Bell, where she worked as a park ranger. It had taken him days to gather up the courage to start the conversation. Now she was standing in front of him again.

"It's forty-five degrees and you look sweaty," she said.

"Oh, sorry." Tom said, wiping his forehead, slightly out of breath. "I feel so guilty."

"Guilty?"

"A couple weeks ago, when I walked up and started talking to you, we made plans to have coffee. But I stayed home the next morning and took care of my cats instead. I lost my nerve."

"It looks like you had the nerve to rob a bank," she said, eyeing the cash.

"Let's have that coffee now. My treat. I'm flush."

"Is that a plumber joke?" In their first conversation, they'd gotten to the topic of professions before agreeing to see each other again.

They headed to the café on the corner and found a table.

 "I thought you were going to take my money," Tom said.

"I might take something else, but not that." She reached toward the bills, which Tom had stacked on the table, then drew her hand back and placed it in her lap. "Tell me how you got so rich."

Tom looked around to check if anyone was listening to their conversation. Laptops. Tattoos. Piercings. Hoodies. Nobody was listening.

He told the tale of the cash card. How he felt when he handed it to the teller. The broken machine. All the irritations that constituted the stuff of his day. And all his days—he could go back further, but, really, why pile on? Then the tap on the shoulder and—strange as it seemed even to him—the possibility of redemption.

"Can you understand all that?" he asked.

"To me it sounds like you need to get out more. Be with people your own age." She winked.

"Well, here I am with you." 

She was quiet for a moment. His words floated between them like a fading hymn. He wondered if they both heard it.

"I don't make a habit of consorting with criminals," she said. "But I'll make an exception today. You can buy me a latte, big spender, with all your ill-gotten treasure."

He didn't know whether to smile or shout, but his feeling, whatever it was, ached with urgency. He got up, took his money from the table. and turned toward the counter. An orange-haired barista, bright red lips glistening, waited there for his order.