I took a small notepad out of my apron pocket, wrote down the four-digit number of the Oak Creek post office box and folded the paper until it was as small as a postage stamp.

I slipped the paper into my right shoe, just under the leather heel liner.

The vinyl seat of Sarah’s Buick was cold through my denim coat as the dashboard clock rolled over to nine in the morning.

Sarah jingled her car keys in her right coat pocket while we sat in the third row of the parking lot, facing the concrete front steps of building four.

“You’re sure this is the address on that stub?” Sarah asked.