Witnessing human recoil of that magnitude remains unparalleled in my life. His head whipped backward, facial features collapsing inward as a strangled, gagging shriek escaped him. Throwing his arms outward in reflexive shock knocked the box sideways, spilling thick, electric-blue industrial paste outward—coating his hands, soaking up his sleeves, saturating his pristine white shirt, spattering his expensive trousers, shiny dress shoes, the welcome mat, and surrounding porch decking.
Vibrant, permanent indigo everywhere.
Then came the vocalized terror.
A full-throated, adult male shriek erupting at seven in the morning on suburban turf reminiscent of disturbing a massive wasp hive—sound waves sharp enough to halt passing vehicular traffic.
The entire block responded instantly.
Entry doors flew wide, heads swiveled. Walt and Mrs. Petrova hurried across the grass under the guise of public safety concern. Commuters stopped loading vehicles; dog walkers froze. Denise, Clark’s wife, burst through the front door draped in a bathrobe.
“Clark?! What happened?! What is that?!”
There he stood pinned center-stage on his porch, drenched head-to-toe in blue dye, coughing violently against the choking skunk stench clinging to his skin, clothing, and immediate atmosphere.
Lying face-up directly in front of him sat the explanatory note, splattered yet legible.
Denise spotted the document first.
