I left the fort at nine forty-five and drove five miles down Oak Ridge Highway to the strip mall.

The shipping store smelled of cardboard and wet ink.

A young man with a black pen tucked behind his ear stood behind the long glass counter, weighing a package.

I laid the photocopy of the notarized power of attorney down on the glass between us.

“This stamp has your store’s registration number on it,” I said.

The clerk leaned over the counter, taking his reading glasses out of his shirt pocket.

He studied the round red impression next to the signature line.