I shook his hand, feeling the solid weight of the desk, the office, and my own signed contract under my fingers.

When I walked out to my car in the quiet evening light, I unzipped my leather briefcase on the hood of my Toyota.

Inside was the stamped green USPS certified mail receipt from the Tenth Street post office, proof that my formal title notice was on a delivery truck headed north to Portland.

I laid the stamped receipt on top of my signed employment contract and closed the briefcase latch.

The neutral conference room on the fifth floor smelled of fresh varnish and carpet cleaner.