Ordinary looking enough- the box sat outside, nearly hidden behind the plant pot, beaten
and chewed up, as if a dog had gnawed on it for fun. To be honest, maybe it did- NYC was
unpredictable like that. The color of the dilapidated box matches your minuscule apartment walls, apuke, and slimy beige color. You resist the urge to ignore it because after all, you are excellent at ignoring everything, even the heavy weight of misery you carry around you, but as your curiosity piques, you give in anyway.

The box upon closer inspection does not carry a return address on top. It has your name on
it but no indication of what remained inside. Had you actually pressed “order” or “add to cart”
during one of your late night online shopping rambles? Probably not; money is scarce but a personcan dream. Still, it isn't anywhere near your birthday. No friends to send a package of any kind. Nofamily, other than frugal Mom and Dad. But they wouldn’t be willing to send mail when somethingcould be just dropped off, plain and easy.

Approach cautiously, a voice drums in your head. You shake away the cry- it is the same one
that yells at midnight about how lonely you are, how stupid you are to uproot into the city, pathetic, can’t-you-even-pay-the-bills? You’ve learned to ignore it, tune it out just as you have tuned out yourparent’s sermons. What is there even to be scared of? It’s just a box, after all.

But your hyper awareness tendencies kick right back again. This is, after all, a box
containing God-Knows-What and it came from Who-Knew-Where. Gingerly, your fingers dance
around the box, finding a suitable grip to begin unraveling this mystery.

Lifting the box gives no hint of what was inside. It’s light enough to be carried in one hand
but that clue could have applied to thousands of things- junk mail, a phone, cleaning supplies, yoursense of self-worth. Rattling it, something inside bounces around, thudding this way and that.

The suspension is killing you and you run to get your father's old mail opener, a rusty knife.
The dried blood splotches from that time you cut your finger on it when you were six stubbornly remain. Convinced that you were about to die, that was the first time you latched onto the tangibility of death, the nearness of demise. It felt as physical as the gaping, oozing, uncontrollable wound on your pinkie finger, the question of “what happens if all my blood just oozes out?” ripping through your head.

Slicing your box neatly in half, the flaps open to reveal a well-loved book. You palm it in
disbelief. Right in front of you was Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, your fifth grade most prized possession, an old friend, here to welcome you home. Hogwarts was where you truly belonged, the home of witches and wizards and freaks alike. You fit into the last category. But what was it doing here? Who sent it?

Shaking the book, a note falls out. On it, flowery handwriting. “Your father’s dead. Cleaned
the house out, thought you might enjoy this. Love, Mom.” Shaking, you stare at the cover, Harry on a broomstick, your world slowly exploding.