Mr. McBanks stood in the doorway of the new bank and counted the silver on his desk for the third time. Forty-one pouches. Forty-one families waiting outside for a receipt he could not honestly write. The building smelled of fresh pine. The sign above the door still had sawdust on it. But the small iron box behind his desk was not a vault. It was a strongbox with a single lock, and any man with a crowbar could open it in a minute. He had promised the town a bank strong enough to trade with every neighbor. He could not open trade if he could not keep tonight's deposits safe until morning. The door creaked. An older man walked in, wiping rain from his glasses. He wore a dark blue suit and a red tie, and he carried a leather ledger under one arm. Mr. Gold. The executive banker the town had written to a month ago. Mr. McBanks had asked for advice. He had not expected the man to come in person. "You are storing silver in that?" Mr. Gold pointed at the strongbox. He did not sit. "Send them home. Now. Before you take a single coin." "They will not trust me again if I turn them away tonight," Mr. McBanks said. "They will not trust you at all if you are robbed by morning." Mr. Gold set the ledger on the desk and opened it. Inside were sketches. A stone-lined pit. Iron plates. A double-bolt door. "You have a blacksmith. You have a sawmill. You have a forester. You have everything you need for a real vault except the will to make people wait a week." Mr. McBanks looked at the sketch, then at the front window. The families were still out there in the wet. He recognized the sheriff among them, arms folded, watching the door. He walked outside. The rain had thinned to a drizzle. He raised his voice so the back of the crowd could hear. "I will not take your silver tonight," he said. "Not into that box. It is not safe, and I will not lie to you about it. Come back in seven days. By then I will have a vault built of stone and iron, and I will show it to you before you hand me a single coin." A murmur moved through the crowd. One man cursed and walked off. Most stayed. The sheriff gave a short nod and turned to send the rest home. Inside, Mr. Gold was already sketching a materials list. "Seven days is tight," he said. "You will need the blacksmith at the forge tomorrow, and the sawmill running by dawn." Mr. McBanks picked up his pen. The sawmill. He set the pen back down. The sawmill had been finished for weeks, and everyone in town knew it had never cut a board.