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“I’m a mailman,” Arthur said aloud, to no one. “I deliver the mail.”
Arthur stopped the truck. He looked at the box on the passenger seat. Its label still read THE HOUSE AT THE END OF THE WORLD .
He closed the box. He stood. He looked at the Sorting, who had become a woman again, or almost.
She reached across the desk and tapped the box. The label changed. Now it read: ARTHUR KELLERMAN 147 POTTER’S LANE DRY CREEK, CT “That’s my address,” he whispered.
“Now you go home. You live your life. And tomorrow, you deliver the mail.” She paused. “But you will remember this. You will see the futures inside the envelopes more clearly than ever before. You will know, every time you hand a letter to someone, that you are handing them a branch of possibility. And you will never be able to tell them.”