My room assignment had come through the week before. I had already emailed my future roommate, a girl from Minnesota named Leah who owned three guitars and apologized in advance for being “a morning person.” My scholarships were processed. I had paid my housing deposit myself with money from the coffee shop. Two boxes sat by my bedroom door, labeled in black marker: dorm desk and winter stuff. My grandmother had bought me a navy comforter and a set of towels that still had the tags on them.
Everything was ready.
I called the bank thinking the conversation would take five minutes.
The woman on the phone had a bright, practiced voice. She verified my name, date of birth, the last four digits of my Social Security number, and the account type. I could hear typing in the background. For a second, I glanced at the clock and wondered whether I would have time to stop by Grandma Ruth’s after my afternoon shift.
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Then the typing stopped.
Not paused.
Stopped.
The woman’s voice changed when she came back. It became careful in the way people sound when they are walking toward bad news and hoping you do not make them run.
“I’m showing a balance of two hundred fourteen dollars and thirty-six cents.”
I laughed.
