He was not surprised to discover that the white blanket stopped at the exact edge of his property line, that the straight sides of the carefully placed envelopes marked a perfect border around the irregular shape of his land.

He dashed back to the house, experiencing a perverse sense of pleasure as the envelopes crunched beneath his feet. The phone was still ringing, and he ran into the bedroom, picking it up as he fell back onto the bed. “Hello?” he said.

“Letters,” the mailman sang in a cruel parody of a Las Vegas lounge singer. “We’ve got letters!”

Doug hung up the phone, his hand suddenly sweaty. His heart was pounding, and not just with the exertion of running. He lay there for a moment, breathing, thinking, then picked up the phone again to dial Mike.

“Letters,” the mailman sang through the receiver.

Doug hung up. The mailman was staying on the line, keeping it open, not letting him make or receive calls.

Fine, Doug thought, his mouth set in grim determination. If the mailman wanted to play hardball, hardball was what he was going to get.

He unplugged the receiver. First he would drive to the hospital, see Billy and Trish. Then he would go to the police station. Then he would go to the hardware store and buy some extra garbage cans.

Then he would come back here and rake the yard and throw away all of that fucking mail.

Tritia said that she’d stay at home tonight if Doug wanted, keep him company. Billy was feeling better, she said, and wanted to be alone, didn’t want his parents hovering over him every second of the day like he was some kind of baby. But Doug insisted that she remain with their son, telling her that it was important for the boy that she be with him. She said that in that case it was important for both of them to be there, but he told her that he and Mike had a strategy meeting to conduct. They had things to discuss and plan out. She should stay at the hospital.

It was a wise decision, for the next day the property was again covered with mail, although the pure white envelopes of the previous morning had been replaced by an odd assortment of strangely shaped packages, poorly wrapped parcels and filthy postmarked bundles. As before, every inch of ground was covered. The mailman had somehow managed to fit the pieces of this motley collection together like some giant jigsaw puzzle, finding complementary curves for the sides of bent boxes, finding corresponding accordion sides to match mishandled packages.