The year is 2067. A man appears from the door of a sagging shack. He is grizzled, weathered, tired from a life of disappointment. He braces against the wind, cold and unrelenting. He staggers to the mailbox, and opens the creaky metal flap door. Inside, a beaten padded mailer. He squints at the label, dimly lit by the dying Sun, and pulls out its contents.
His Square reader had finally arrived.