Next to the key ring lay the heavy black plastic garage door opener that had been clipped to my car visor ever since my father bought it for me on my sixteenth birthday.

“Next, please,” the postal worker called from behind window three.

I stepped up and laid the padded mailer on the digital scale.

“Where’s this going?” he asked, tapping at his keyboard.

“Out to suburban Cook County,” I said.

“First class or express?”

“Certified mail,” I said.

“With a green return receipt card on the back.”