Arthur Nelson Protected His Wyoming Mountain Cabin with a Trust
“He had me sign a stack of pension papers before I left,” I said, my finger tracing the edge of the yellow card. “He said it was standard procedure for the retirement transition.”
Edwin set his mug down with a soft click.
“You need to call the source,” he said.
I walked out to the porch at three in the afternoon, the cold air keeping me alert as I dialed the Denver post office number on my cell phone.
The call went through three transfers before a clerk named Miller answered, his voice flat with the weight of a hundred identical inquiries.
“I have a mail forwarding order here for Arthur Nelson,” I said, reading the confirmation number from the card. “I did not submit this request.”
“Let me pull the digital scan of the physical form,” Miller said, the sound of rapid keyboard clicks filling the gap.
“Who signed the authorization line?” I asked, my fingers tightening around the wooden porch railing.
