"Let's see it."
She took it out of the back of the wallet. It was warm from being next to her. She handed it to him, and she watched his face as he read the name, and she braced herself for him to say it, and he did.
"Ashleigh Marie Hatcher," he read aloud.
It went through her like current. Nobody had said that name out loud to her in ten months. In the courtroom, at the name-change hearing in September, the magistrate had read it once into the record in a flat voice, and then the hearing had been sealed, and the magistrate had looked up at her over her glasses and said, This order is effective immediately, Ms. Garvey, and that was the last time. She had walked out of the courthouse into the September heat feeling like someone had lifted a piece of furniture off her chest. And now here it was again, in a stranger's mouth, on a public sidewalk in front of a school, with a woman in a white Tahoe filming it on her phone.
"That's not the name on this," he said, holding up the paper.
"No. I changed it."
"When?"
"In September."
"Why?"
She looked at him. "Personal reasons."