He took Dr. Anand's letter out of the accordion folder and handed it to her, and she read it all the way through and then nodded and paper-clipped it to the MV-1.
"We-owe," she said. "I owe you a second key fob. I ordered it Tuesday; Toyota says ten days. When it comes in, you come get it, I don't charge you, I program it here. That's in writing, that's the we-owe. Sign there so I can't forget."
He signed.
"And the cashier's check."
He took it out and unfolded it and gave it to her, and she looked at it, at the amount, at the name of the credit union, at the signature, and then she looked at him over her glasses.
"You borrowed against your retirement."
"I did."
"I'm not going to say anything."
"Thank you."
"I'm going to say one thing. I'm not going to say anything except that." She put the check in the folder. "Now the temporary operating permit."
She turned the tablet toward herself and typed on it with two fingers, quickly, looking down through the bottom of her glasses. Alton watched her face. He had spent enough time in this office over thirty-one Fridays to know it a little, the way you know the face of a cashier you see every week, and he knew that something was going on in it that he did not have the full story of. She typed and waited and typed again.