I heard, “Don’t get too close, Whitney.”

In the middle of the table was a package. It had been delivered while Gordon and I were at lunch. In uneven lettering, it was addressed to me, care of the Bystander but marked CONFIDENTIAL, with about a dozen stamps and no return address. The whole thing was wrapped around and around with Scotch tape.

“Were you expecting this?” Mort said.

“No.”

“What could it be?” someone asked, and someone answered, “Anthrax, obviously.”

“I have friends at NBC,” Nate Zimmer said. “They’re all on Cipro.”

“Alright, alright,” Mort said. “What do you want to do, Whitney?”

I looked around at my colleagues. They all held the War on Terror in contempt, but in the presence of this package, they were freaked.

“I mean, I’d just open it,” I said, and someone groaned. “But I don’t want to be responsible for infecting anyone with biochemical weapons. Is there someone we can call?”

“I’d rather not have the FBI in here today,” Mort said.

Everybody muttered agreement.

“Well,” I said, “I guess to hell with it, then.”

The intern said, “Do you want me to open it, Mr. Brewer?”

Mort looked at him a moment, but said, “No, probably not. Alright, everyone, get back.”

He stood with me. The writers clustered near the exit.

“I didn’t think I’d go out like this,” he said.

“Nice knowing you, Mort.”

“It’s been fair-to-good.”

I tore off the tape, dug my nails into the paper, and ripped. The package broke open and a set of videotapes spilled over the table. Mort and I stood there a moment, waiting for them to explode.

“You feel okay?” he asked. “Nausea?”

“No.”

“Lymph glands normal?”

I touched my throat and said, “I think so.”

“All clear,” he called. “Just some cassettes.”

Most of the staff went back to their desks, but a few came over to look.

“What’s on them?” asked the intern.

“How would I know?” I said.

Mort gave me a pat on the back as I gathered them up. “One day we’ll be terrorized,” he said, “and then we’ll know we’re really in the conversation.”

4.

The streetlight that usually burned through my window was dim, the scaffolding covered with a hunter-green cloth that shaded the glare. The restoration was almost complete. I kept expecting to come home to find the facade painted white. Then people would glance to the upper windows and think how brilliant it must be to live in New York in a pristine white apartment building. They’d start making inquiries, they’d be willing to pay almost anything.

I poured a glass of red and sat on the floor in front of the TV, the tapes in a stack beside me. They were numbered one through five but otherwise bore no labels. When I pushed #1 into the VCR, the screen went blue and then a picture wobbled into focus.