The tool cabinets come from Shenzhen, through a friend of my brother’s called Joseph Zhou. Jo-Jo. My brother is a senior Cathay pilot in Hong Kong and Jo-Jo is a go-between, one of those citizens of Hong Kong whose business life is a dimly lit web of deals that have made him, by my assessment, wealthy. I am very much a sideline for him, though it’s possible his business model is based around a carefully woven mesh of sidelines. I’m still not certain whether he sees working with me as a genuine business opportunity or a favour to my brother.

The tool cabinets are surplus, overruns. Factories routinely make extra and hold them until the official order has landed and been checked. It’s built into their cost base, apparently. The tool cabinet itself isn’t trademarked, so it can probably be legally sold with the branding removed. Today, another three cabinets will begin their journeys to their final homes in the lower forty-eight states.

I check the parts are all there and working – I have the routine down by now – box them up, tape them shut and add their shipping labels. With all the crouching and moving around, there’s a slow burn building in my knee as I load the cabinets onto the trolley to take them to the van. I lean down on the handle and take my weight off the leg to see if it eases, but it’s not that kind of pain. The pile of box blanks in the storage unit is still chest high. Whoever loads the containers sends far more of them than I can use. I set a dozen on top of the cabinets for Ellen and her workshop, and load the van.

At the mall, I park as close to H&M as I can and go in through the entrance between it and Bosco’s, a store crammed with pop culture – comics, cards, games and the merch that spills out of them. Marvel, Pokémon, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine on its twenty-fifth anniversary. It’s a treasure trove for Cedar, and a nightmare to bring him here unless a purchase has been earned.

The trolley clunks as I push it through the doorway of the post office. I know most of the staff from past visits, but the person who serves me is someone I haven’t met. Her polo shirt is neatly pressed, new. She is fortyish, with a tattoo on her right arm just below her sleeve – a chubby seraphim with a horn in one hand and a banner in the other, with the words ‘Glory to His Name Forever’. All over this country are people with their faith inked on their bodies in the form of one Bible quote or another.

She scans the three boxes, and watches while I transfer them to her trolley.