Tritia followed Irene down the hall to her husband’s den. She tried not to think of the toe, the severed toe, lying in the box, as Irene opened the door. Tritia peeked over her friend’s shoulder. The room was filled with boxes of all shapes and sizes. They had been thrown into the room and left where they’d landed, right side up, upside down, on their sides. All were wrapped in brown butcher paper.

Tritia stepped around Irene into the room.

“Don’t touch them,” Irene screamed.

Tritia jumped. She turned around. She hadn’t been planning to touch anything. “What’s in them?” she asked, though she already knew the answer.

“Jasper.”

“Your husband?”

“The parts of his body.”

Tritia felt suddenly cold, chilled to the bone. She backed away from the open door. “None of the boxes are open,” she said. “Maybe you’re wrong.”

“I don’t have to open them.” Irene pointed toward a square box big enough to contain a stack of hardback books. “I think that’s his head.”

Tritia closed the den door, pulling her friend away. “You have to get out of here,” she said. “Why don’t you come home with me?”

“No!” The old woman’s voice was still capable of surprising sharpness.

“At least tell the police. Have them get these boxes out of here. You can’t live like this.”

Irene’s face clouded over. “I’m sorry, I have no tea. You’ll have to leave now.” She jumped, crying out, and instantly looked at the floor behind her, but there was nothing there.

“Please,” Tritia begged.

“It’s my house. I want you out of here.”

“I’m your friend.”

“You were my friend.”

“I’ll call the police and tell them what I’ve seen and they’ll come in here anyway.”

“You do what you have to do.”

Tritia felt like crying with frustration. She yelled at her friend. “Can’t you see what’s happening here? Can’t you see what the mailman’s doing?”

“I see better than you. Please leave now.”

Tritia allowed herself to be pushed out the doorway. She remained on the porch for several minutes after the door was slammed shut, after she heard the sounds of locks and latches being drawn. She thought about the boxes in the den. The mailman might just be trying to scare her. They might not really contain body parts.

But they might.

What were they going to do? They couldn’t just sit around until they were all knocked off or driven crazy. Something had to be done. But what? The police were no help. Apparently the higher-ups in the Postal Service weren’t either.

Maybe someone should kill him.

The thought came, unbidden, but though she tried to push it away, tried to tell herself it was wrong and immoral and illegal, the idea stayed with her.