‘The mailman said he dropped a box off here, so I was wondering if there was a mistake, and you had my box.’

‘I don’t think so.’ I respond too quickly, and he reads me easily. He squints, and points past me through a gap between me and the doorway, to the box recently taped up, sitting on the kitchen island. ‘I see a box on the bench in there.’

‘That’s right. It is addressed to me. Nothing to do with you.’ His eyes are faintly bloodshot, and I’m thinking he’s a man who is used to drinking heavily on his own.

‘It looks like it could be mine. Can I have a look?’

I know how this will go. I will deny him entry, he will insult me, accuse me of being a thief, threaten legal action, and say he will get me one way or another. He’s that sort of guy. I don’t need drama like this when I have quarter of a mill in crisp notes in my bathroom.

‘How can it look like it’s yours?’

‘It just does.’

I take my time examining his face — the thickening weathered skin, the multiple folds around the eyes — knowing I could take all my feelings of rage against the world, the piercing fury of injustice, out on Ben Ruder, and not feel any remorse. I could hit him over the head with a baseball bat, watch him slump, and know that the better people of the world might not be cheering me on, but they would understand. But instead of belting him, I say, ‘Have you got a knife?’ Cool as.

His hand goes to a pouch on his belt.

‘It’s not been opened. You’re welcome to have a look.’ I extend an arm to show him the way. I’m getting good at this. If he’s looking for the money, I’m willing to bet he won’t want to open the boxes in front of me. But if he declines, how would he ever know, short of having someone steal them from my house?

He removes his hat, takes a pocket knife from his pouch, and steps forward. ‘I’d appreciate that.’

We stand on either side of the island, and look at the box. The phone starts to ring, and I let it. Ben is focused on the box. He checks the address panel, and runs his hands expertly over the cardboard and tape surface. Then he stabs the knife into the seam in the top, and cuts backwards the distance of half a hand. He peers into the box, and then pushes a hand in the gap. I can’t see what he is finding. He pulls his hand back out, and says, resigned, ‘It’s not mine. Some sort of hand tool. Did you order one?’

A man’s voice on my answering machine says something about boxes.