After visiting the hall of records, George carried with him his birth certificate and found out exactly when he was born.

“10:30 AM”, he whispered to himself, “On a Tuesday.”

The building was bunker-like in appearance with this concrete walls, rectangular opening to serve as windows and rounded corners to give it a special kind of modern look. For a Thursday afternoon there were mostly deliveries of supplies and a gardener or two roaming the grounds. The stillness of the parking lot is what gave him the sense that if something did happen of a crisis-scale, this place would be well protected. Perhaps to keep the records intact for future generations who’d want to find out what their relatives were like. Or perhaps they would trash the place and use the records as a source to make a fire with. The building itself would still be around after several generations of outlaws and survivors using it as a modern day castle.

Back in his car, George folded the document in half and neatly placed it in a provided manilla envelope. Just as he was about to drive away, one of the gardeners near the entrace ran over to him with a document in hand.

“You dropped this on your way out,” he said, smiling as if his good deed for the day was accomplished before noon.

“Oh no that’s not mine. I have my paper here,” George replied and held the manilla envelope in his hand.

“You’re welcomed,” said the gardener. He pushed the document through the opening in the window. George shook his head. He took the second envelope and opened it. Inside was 3 papers, each with small font type-set and contained an inventory list of what appeared to be names of chemicals and compounds. Next to each one was a percentage followed by a serial number. The other papers had the same thing. The last document out of the three also included a picture of a bar code with the words “ML020175-413″.

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