Her replacement asks where to sign. She has brought a pen of her own. She returns the older woman's copy of Brave New World. At the interview she had asked why anyone would want to rescue the people who were happy. The older woman had put her name first.
Behind the exchange, behind the third narrow door, the older woman has kept one ledger thirty years. Her right shoulder sits higher than her left. At home she holds the kettle with both hands. Her last salary is already spoken for. The installments on her mother's room. Rent. Four years left on the boiler.
A week before leaving she checked the oldest order. Small, daily. FARE. She counted it against the harbor bell. One for one: whatever crossed the water, the account paid. The holder's name was one word short.
The opening date preceded the house's founding. She fetched the minutes. Old paper, newer thread. She demanded the authority for the payments. Until it arrived, she would not sign the account over. The house gave her inquiry a reference.
That night her debts settled. Rent. Her mother's room. The boiler. Each payment carried that reference. She sat on the bed with the phone in her lap. For a while she could not get her mouth to close.
In the drawer next morning: Received with thanks. No authority enclosed.
Accounts confirmed the credits. Inquiries required the original authority before it could close her reference. She called each. Accounts would not discuss an order that old. Inquiries would not discuss the money. Both told her to keep the other office's reply.
The standing order had a new funding line. PAYER. Her name, in full. The next fare came out of her last salary.
Now the replacement stands beside her. Younger than she was when she first asked for a different chair. She has left another job for this one.
"Is that the last account?"
The older woman opens the transfer form. She types the new woman's name into the payer's field. All of it fits.
"What does it pay?"
"The fare."
"Whose?"
She could still turn the paper over. Ask her to read it. Tell her about the money.
"It's always been here."
She puts a finger beside the signature line. Holds the page still while the new woman writes. Waits for the ink to dry before giving her the key.
The bell sounds. One fare goes out. Her balance holds.
She takes the long way to her mother's room.