The air was thickening. You could see it up in the pale grey sky where the clouds assembled like a fleet of dreadnoughts. You could feel the oppressive damp wind from the west, smell anticipatory ozone. Hear it in the distant aerial cracks of thunder creeping closer.

A storm – no, a hell of a storm – was coming.

A man in blue stood beside a mailbox on a post surrounded by billowing brown grass, clutching a handful of envelopes against the wind. Some envelopes bore the name Clarice Miller, and he was obliged to put them in the box along with the envelopes addressed to James Richards, though he knew poor Mrs. Miller had shuffled off her mortal coil and wouldn’t be opening any more envelopes. It was stupid, but he had gotten a fit from Schmidt in town when Mr. Kibbler had passed away and he’d held onto his mail.

He looked over his shoulder at the storm and slammed the mailbox shut. Mrs. Miller’s – Mr. Richards’ house tended to lose power at times like this. He hoped someone had warned the new owner.