At 11:47 PM, Arthur did what any reasonable, exhausted, hollowed-out person would do. He drove to the 24-hour post office on Girard Avenue.

But this time, Arthur didn’t feel anger. He felt something worse: recognition.

Three to five days. He had eight before the new tenants took over. The math worked, barely.

He read the words aloud to the empty living room. Cardboard boxes, half-taped and labeled with a fading Sharpie, stood like mute sentinels around him. “Check my information,” he murmured. He had checked it. Forty-two times.

“But that’s the point,” Arthur said. “I’m trying to tell them I’m moving.”

Then he picked up his phone and called the credit card company again. A different woman answered. Younger. Less tired.