A young clerk with a silver nametag that read Grace was adjusting a stack of blue return forms. She had her dark hair pulled back in a neat ponytail, and she looked up with a quick, polite smile as I approached the counter.
I reached into my pocket, pulled out the single fifty-dollar gift card the lawyer had given me, and set it on the green laminate. “I wanted to check the balance on this, please,” I said, my voice rising slightly at the end.
Grace Miller, the young clerk, nodded and took the plastic card. She slid it through the side of her register terminal, the plastic making a sharp, hollow click as it passed through the reader. The screen flickered, and then a series of short, high-pitched beeps came from the machine.
Grace frowned and ran the card through a second time, slower this time. The register went chunk-chunk as she pressed the subtotal button, the paper tape running out of the slot. She cracked her knuckles, the sound sharp in the quiet corner of the store, before she looked up at me.
