Caldwell,” the records clerk said, setting a black plastic reel on the wooden counter.

“I need the certified delivery receipts for the original notification packets,” I said.

“Four fourteen-dollar registered mail receipts sent to the Fort Carson infantry barracks.”

The clerk slid the microfiche into the reader, and a pale green light flared across the glass screen.

She turned the side dial twice, lining the small film squares up with the grid on the screen.

“Here’s the dispatch log from the maternity ward,” she said.