He slides the manila envelope out, holding it close and hiding it in his courier bag before relocking the mailbox. He won’t hear Poe’s silent steps behind him, coming up the walk, climbing the porch stairs. He won’t hear the quiet click and hum of the black stun gun in Poe’s massive right hand, or the crackle as it presses against his ribs, shocking him twice—first in his body, then in his mind.

Poe turns toward me and waves me down the driveway, as if to say Move along now. Nothing to see here.

And now two more men rush up to the house from the black car across the street. They lift Del by the armpits, dragging his rag-doll body down the steps, along the path, and to the car while I wait helplessly to see if Poe rings our doorbell and repeats the show with Patrick.

He doesn’t; he only walks away from our house, folds himself into the rear seat of the black car next to an unconscious Del, and waits for me to drive away. Then the black car pulls from the curb, following my Honda all the way to Connecticut Avenue, where it turns and heads south. It crosses my mind to reverse course and go to the Rays’ farm to warn Sharon, but I shunt the thought aside. I’d be caught or too late or—best case—have Morgan all over my ass for not showing up to work on time.

As I weave through morning traffic, I process the morning’s events. Poe must think Del had the envelope all along, that he was about to deliver it, perhaps to some other address.

I don’t have an eidetic memory—not even close. But I do have a head for text. In a previous life, or in a future life if I had access to books, I might make a decent editor. Not that I can write worth a shit, but I can process mistakes. And the ones I’m processing as I wind through traffic on my way to meet Lorenzo and Lin are the twin typos I found in the red and gold packets inside a manila envelope.

The errors aren’t the only things running through my mind like rabid hamsters on a wheel. The very nature of three distinct teams duplicating one another’s work shouldn’t merit classified status. And my team was never classified, or if it was, our president declassified it in a press conference three days ago.

I park the Honda in my designated spot, between Lorenzo’s Mustang and the space where Lin’s Smart car should be but isn’t. Inside the building, a soldier waves me through the checkpoint after taking my purse and laying it on the X-ray machine’s belt.

“What’s this?” I say.