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Curtis Green was at home, greeting the morning with 64 ounces of Coca-Cola and powdered mini doughnuts. Fingers frosted synthetic white, he was startled to hear someone at the door. It was 11 am, and surprise visits were uncommon at his modest house in Spanish Fork, Utah, a high-desert hamlet in the shadow of the Wasatch Mountains. Green ambled over, adjusting his camouflage fanny pack. He peeked through the front window and caught a glimpse of the postman hurrying off.
The guy was wearing a US Postal Service jacket, but with sneakers and jeans. Also odd was a van Green noticed across the street, one he’d never seen before: white, with no logos or rear windows. It was winter, a day of high clouds and low sun. A pale haze washed out the white-tipped Spanish Fork Peak rising above the valley. On the porch sat a Priority box—about Bible-sized.