Just last week I’d about given up hope. But here it is.

Sitting on my doorstep. Waiting for me. Calm and disinterested. As if it had no idea how important its contents were.

The plain brown wrapper, dotted and spotted with bits of unmashed pulp. The essence of so many nameless trees, unbleached, showing its true nature like a homogenized slurry, like so many stones crushed into faceless, bland cement; like a menagerie of vegetables put in a blender to make an opaque, dark red mush; flattened and folded around the object of my desire.

The clear, broad tape, lain around its edges with perspicacity made possible only by the most finely tuned machines, expertly securing the covers of blunt, oblong boxes with lightning-like reflexes and speed.

The label, carefully laid square in the corner, proudly emblazoned with the name of Witterley Industries, and printed clearly with my humble name.

I picked it up gingerly, and, with the most loving of handling and most careful of balance, brought the package inside.