Margen
—Good morning. I've come about a charge. —Please, sit down. I'm Elena Ríos, the teller. Give me your name. —Carmen Losada, retired from the hospital. I'm Ramón's widow. He opened this account nineteen years ago. —One moment, Carmen. Here it is. Twelve euros twenty, on the first of August. Inactivity fee. —We've never paid that. —It applies when there's no movement for ninety days. The account has read as dormant since May the thirteenth. —But he died on the fourteenth of March. I didn't touch anything, I didn't know how. —I can see a Social Security deposit here on the thirtieth of March. Your husband's pension for that month. —They didn't ask me to give it back. —They couldn't: it was in his name, and he was the account holder until the thirtieth of April. The system should have counted that deposit as valid movement. —Then... —I'll reverse the charge right now, from my window. And the four before it: April, May, June, and July. You'll be refunded sixty-one euros twenty cents. —Without any paperwork? —It's our mistake, Carmen. Sign here. —The transfers to our daughter in Málaga. June and July. They're there, aren't they? —They are, Carmen. Two hundred euros for those months, and a smaller one in May for a hundred and twenty. —He would send them on Tuesdays at six in the morning. Same every week. —Tuesdays are logged here. Nineteen years running. —Elena. —Yes? —Thank you for calling me by my name.