Melquiadas studied the box on his desk. He picked up the phone and dialed.

-Terry? Um, what's the deal with this box?

-Oh... well, it was here when I came in this morning.

-It doesn't say. No return address either.

-It's about five cubic inches and brown.

-I don't know.

-I can't.

-Well, that's the thing... it has no seams.

-None. It's as if it is one continuous piece of cardboard.

-I know most boxes are, but they glue or tape them shut. This is just... I don't know... there's no flaps or anything.

-I've checked it several times.

-I know that's impossible, but I wasn't about to start cutting this thing open without talking to you first.

Melquiadas and Terry studied the box on his desk.

The environment was demoralizing. Under the bright flourescence air conditioning mixed with humidity making the room cool but sticky. The phone kept ringing.

What the fuck was I...

Mike lost it. He pecked at the keyboard forming a few words, then deleted them.

Shit.

He tried to concentrate, but listened to Sonic Youth instead.

"Is it raining outside?"

"It just started sprinkling"

Fuck.

"These napkins are pretty heavy duty."

You stupid fucks... won't you just shut up.

He pecked at the keyboard again.

He stared.

Goddamnit!