Through the window, he met the mailman’s gaze, and for the first time in a long while he did not look away.

The mailman moved over to the wooden mailbox and opened the hinged door. Out spilled envelopes, white and manila, thin and stuffed, large and small: the untouched mail that had been delivered over the past few days. The mailman looked up again at the house, and Tril could see in the white skeletal face a ferocious rage, an expression of pain and hate so raw and unfettered that both boys moved back from the window, too frightened to watch.

But Tril watched.

He watched as the mailman angrily picked the envelopes off the dirt and shoved them back into the box. Watched as he brought more mail from the car and shoved it in as well. Watched as he slammed shut the mailbox door.

The mailman moved around to the driver’s side of the car. He glared at the house and mouthed something Tril could not make out before getting in and driving off in a cloud of dust.

Tril waited a few moments to make sure he was not going to return, then looked back at Annie, at his sons, picked up the hammer and nails, and went outside to nail the mailbox shut.

Hunt James pulled into the six-space parking lot in front of the building he shared with Dr. Elliott. He had come here to tape up the mail slot in his office door, to make sure that the mailman would not be able to deliver anything to his business address. He strode across the faded and broken asphalt and stepped onto the short sidewalk. In the window of the dentist’s office, next to the familiar “No UPS today” sign, he saw a hastily lettered square of white cardboard that said “NO MAIL EVER!”

Good idea, Hunt thought. He used his key to open the door to his own office and flipped on the lights. He strode purposefully across the carpeted floor. From his secretary’s desk, he took a thick black felt-tipped pen and a sheet of typing paper as well as a roll of masking tape. Smiling to himself, he began to write.

The mailman drove by the house three times before stopping. David Adams grinned to himself as he saw the red car brake in front of the house. He had dug up the mailbox, had filled in the post hole, and had dumped the whole thing into the back yard. Later, after breakfast, he would cut up the post for kindling and smash the mailbox itself.

The mailman got out of his car and, letters in hand, walked straight up the driveway toward the front door.