I gave him a ten-dollar bill and took my change along with the printed receipt.

“When will it arrive?” I asked.

“Around ten on Friday morning,” he said, tossing the mailer into a canvas hamper behind his chair.

“Somebody has to sign for it in person before the carrier hands it over.”

“That’s fine with me,” I said.

By seven that evening, Terminal 5 at O’Hare glowed under harsh fluorescent ceiling lights and hummed with rolling luggage wheels and far-off gate announcements.

David was standing by the podium at gate M14 with a dark leather briefcase and two paper cups of black coffee from the terminal kiosk.