Arthur looked up, his expression mild. “With standard certified, anyone at the address can sign for it. If you want only him to sign, that is restricted delivery.”
“No,” I said, sliding my debit card through the terminal. “Standard is fine.”
The envelope contained the black-and-white ultrasound of our daughter and Dr. Marcus’s letter about the October twelfth scheduled C-section. It was everything Ethan had refused to hear over the phone, printed on crisp white paper.
Arthur adjusted his blue vest. “The frost is coming early this year,” he said, looking out the window at the gray street. “My tomatoes are done for.”
“Mine too,” I said, though I had not planted anything this year.
Last spring, Ethan and I had talked about building a raised bed in the backyard, but the wood still sat in a stack behind the garage.
“This will get to his apartment by tomorrow afternoon,” Arthur said, affixing the green tracking sticker to the front of the paper. “They have to get a signature before they can leave it.”
