“Not funny.”

I went into the office and unpinned the “Twenty-Four Hours in Petersville” New York Times Travel article from the wall. By chance, one of the many, many people whose paths Jeanine had blocked on their way to work and held hostage while she did her whole Petersville spiel turned out to be a journalist.

I put the article on the table in front of her. “You did this. That’s making a difference.”

“I know,” she sniffed.

“That’s real.”

“I know.”

“So, that’s more important, right? Than a trip to the White House.”

“No.” She shrugged. “Maybe.”

Just then, through the window, I saw a large truck pull slowly into the parking lot. “Did you guys come with Dad?”

“And Mom. They’re in the cages.” Jeanine wasn’t a fan of the shipping containers and refused to call them cottages. “He got his first reservation so he’s all, you know…” She jiggled her hands in the air. “Yay.”

I went outside.

Josh was just riding up on his bike. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

The truck came to a stop and made a sound like it was exhaling.

“‘Devlin Pack and Ship,’” Josh read off the side. “Your dad get another container?”

“I don’t think so.”

Two guys wearing matching purple DPS shirts and baseball hats climbed out of the cab of the truck.

“Can we help you?” I called.

One of the guys walked over. Pretty sure his name was Otto since that’s what was stitched on his shirt pocket. “We’re looking for a…” he read off an iPad, “Tris Levin.”

Josh and I looked at each other. Hate package?

“Uh, that’s me.”

Otto squinted at me. “You got I.D.?”

“I’m twelve.”

Otto called over his shoulder, “Duke, no I.D.!”

Duke had the back of the truck open now and was lowering a platform with a crate the size of our station wagon to the ground. “Eh, he looks like a Tris.”

“Do you know how stupid that sounds?” Otto said.

“Sign says ‘The Doughnut Stop,’ don’t it?” Duke said.

“But maybe this isn’t the right ‘Doughnut Stop?’ Ever think of that, Einstein?”

“I’m pretty sure this is the only one, at least in Petersville,” I said.

“We had a real mess once with an Olive Garden delivery.” Otto whistled. “A real mess.”

“How many times I got to tell you? She gave me the wrong zip code,” Duke yelled. “You gonna help me get the dollies under this or what?”

“Um, I didn’t order anything this, you know, big. I think it might be a mistake.”

“Are you Tris Levin?”

“Yeah but—”

“Is this The Doughnut Stop?”

“Yeah but—”

“And are we in Petersville, New York, 125156?”

“We are.”

“Then no mistake.” He handed me a stylus and pointed to his iPad. “Sign here.”

“I think I should find out what it is first.”

“Oh, yeah, there’s a note,” Otto said. “Duke! Get the kid the note!”

Duke ripped something off the side of the crate and brought me a clear plastic envelope.