Walter and I founded Ashford Farmers & Merchants in 1965 with a loan from his father and every dollar we owned. Account number 0001 was ours, and it still controlled sixty-four percent of the bank’s shares. I never told the town, because I never saw the need. I let a board run the daily business, and I grew tomatoes. But that spring, a company called Hargrove Financial had offered to buy the bank and close the Ashford branch, and the vote was set for noon that Tuesday. Diane Whitlock, the CEO, and the board had driven out that morning.

Diane opened the black folder with my name on it. Inside, beside the sale papers meant for me, were sixteen complaints filed since April. Trevor had been refusing small checks from seniors, demanding extra identification, and calling it risk screening. He had also cut Peggy’s hours after she questioned him, which was why she was home that morning. Diane had come early because Peggy had called her, and from the car she had watched the lobby feed as he took my driver’s license and said what he said. “I’m sorry, Ruth,” she said. “You should never have had to prove who you are in your own bank.”

Trevor could barely speak. I asked him to look at the photograph, and he finally saw the two young people holding shovels. I did not raise my voice, because Walter always said it helps the other person more than it helps you. I told him careful is a fine thing, but cruel is something else. Then I walked into the conference room at noon and voted no, and since my shares were the majority, the sale to Hargrove died.

Trevor kept his job on one condition. For three months he would work the teller window beside Peggy, who got her full hours back, and learn every customer’s name. He cashed my sixty-dollar check himself, counted it twice, and handed back my license with both hands. Then I went home and started the next batch of pies.