There are lots of reasons why I haven’t stopped by here in the last week—the shopping, the packing, the moving—but I’ve waited as long as I can. It’s fifteen minutes until the official closing time, and even though I can log in and enter after hours, I don’t want a record of that.

Just like every third woman I pass, I’m dressed in black leggings, a tee, and running shoes. My long black hair is pulled into a low bun that sits underneath the back strap of my baseball cap. I angle my head down and to the left to make sure the camera in the corner of the room doesn’t capture a clear image of me. There are several people in line waiting for the next clerk to help them, including a woman who is struggling with a stack of small boxes, juggling them from one side to the other, before finally spilling them all on the floor. The two people in front of her bend down to help her reclaim her packages while attempting to maintain possession of their own. I skirt around the chaos and move to the back of the store, where the mailboxes line the wall.

Bottom left-hand corner. Box 1428.

These boxes use a code rather than a key, so I use the middle knuckle of my pointer finger to punch in the six-digit code. The door unlatches but doesn’t open all the way. Still using the knuckles of my right hand, I swing the door open.

I pull out the small envelope that is tucked in the waistband of my leggings, hesitating a second or two before sliding it into the empty space.

I slam the door shut and reenter the code to lock it back, leaving the store as quickly as I entered it.