The courier was a kid of maybe nineteen in a bonded-delivery jacket, carrying an address that was not supposed to exist.
He apologized twice on the doorstep, checked the sling against his instructions, and put the envelope in Caleb's hand like it was hot.
Caleb gave him forty credits and told him to forget the street. The kid said sorry one more time and went.
Inside the envelope was a single sheet of good paper, and folded inside the sheet, a work glove.
Caleb knew it before he had it all the way out. Left hand, the palm worn through at the heel where a man braces against a rib to lever himself up into a chest cavity, the leather gone the color of old tea.
He had watched that glove for the better part of a year, three years ago, doing the work his own hands were still learning.
He sat down at the table with it, and Iris came and stood over his shoulder while he read the page.
