My thumb hovered over the screen of my phone for three seconds before I pressed the green button, authorizing the immediate release of the funds. The screen flickered, displaying the transaction confirmation number with a small gray checkmark.
By ten o’clock the next morning, I was leaning against the polished granite counter of the downtown branch of State First Bank, waiting for the assistant manager to pull the ledger history. The lobby was cold, the air conditioning still running despite the mid-October frost on the grass outside.
I stood in the center of the lobby, watching the digital clock above the vault door tick past 10:04. A woman in a camel-hair coat was arguing with a loan officer in the corner office, her voice carrying over the low hum of the ventilation system.
A young teller with a gold name tag that read Marcus returned to the counter, carrying three pages of printed transaction logs that still smelled of warm ink. He laid them flat on the stone, his finger tracing the column of figures.
“Here is the verification for the past twelve automated transfers, Ms. Whitaker,” Marcus said, sliding the pages across the stone. “As you requested, we pulled the full routing trail.”
