I check the name and address: Dave Martin, Five Trees. It is mine. It has been sent to me. This makes no sense. Do I have a rich, long-lost, underworld uncle who was looking out for me? Sending me boxes of cash? No chance. I examine the notes. They feel like the right sort of polymer material that bank notes are made from. Maybe 3D printers could do this sort of thing. I unearth my computer from a topsoil of books, magazines, and chip packets, then do a web search on how to identify a $100 note. I find a useful video, and, following its directions, I check the window on the notes for clearness, examine the image in those windows and the micro-print near it, and the raised type, as well as the shadow image of the coat of arms, and everything else they suggest. If these dollars are fake, they are bloody good ones. I try to pick a few notes randomly from the middle of the pile. They seem to be genuine, too. Fuck. What to do? I estimate there is around $250,000 in the box. Not much to an underground criminal, but a bloody fortune to me. I take the box off the bench and place it in the cupboard. It is unnerving me and stopping me thinking clearly.

Should I tape it down and stick it back in the mailbox? Pretend I have never seen it? Or leave a note on it saying ‘Wrong address — I didn’t order any parcels’?

But this money could make a huge difference to my life. I could reduce some of my bank debt, pay the rates, send an expensive present to Sarah, offer to take her on an overseas trip, and explain that my fortunes have changed, I’ve got my act together, and I am keen to get her back. Very, very tempting. But, one way or another, it is stealing. And the people I will be stealing from are likely to be very upset. Not much point making a huge improvement to a life that no longer exists.

However, I know I will never get my hands on this sort of money again. Not unless I sell the farm, and I can’t do that because James is here. I know the box of cash isn’t worth dying for, but nobody would honestly say my recent version of living was worth fighting for either.