I resealed the package and scrawled “return to sender” across the label with a thick black marker, since Dawson had put Sam’s home address as the shipper. Sam kept yelling and whining like a sixty-year-old baby, so I gave the box a couple good hard shakes, then set it down while I surveyed my apartment.

My initial assessment stood firm; I didn’t own shit. I packed some clothes, some books, and some papers. That was it. I made out a couple of labels with Sam’s address on them and taped one to the box of weapons and the others to boxes full of shit I couldn’t carry. If I had the time and money, I’d send for them. If not, I supposed I could live without most of it.

Mostly, I wished I could take the books. I had three shelves lined with volumes about everything from vampires to political conspiracy. They were the only thing besides drugs and alcohol I paid for.

Who knew, maybe I’d make it back before leatherface Judy threw it all out onto the street. I doubted it, though.

In only a matter of hours everything had changed. I looked around the office and thought about all the shit that had crawled through it and all the things that I’d fought and overcome. All of it started at that old desk. I ran my hand along the uneven surface and remembered the day Mo’Lock and I had stolen it from the office of a lawyer who represented a local fraud psychic who was selling curse cures.

His name was Doug Fleck—a big, fat, lying piece of shit. He actually had the balls to come around and look for the desk. I beat him half to death with a table leg.

Good times.

I got a little lump in the throat.

It was time to move on. I grabbed the bag I’d packed and kicked the package with Sam’s head into the hall. I took one last look around. I’d miss it, but I knew I could do better. I flicked the lights off, and turned to go. That was the last time I saw my office-slash-apartment in Washington, D.C.

It didn’t take me long to track down Brent for the third time in a day. He was at the end of his rounds, which put him only a few blocks away. His truck was parked beneath a tree to block the drizzle as he sorted outgoing mail into small bins. He knew why I was there.

“I still haven’t seen Mo’Lock.”

“I want to send this back.” I handed him the resealed package with Sam’s head.

“You don’t want it?” Brent looked side to side, then leaned in close. “There’s a fella’s head inside, ya know.”