Page 141 of Mario
Everything is exactly as I left it Friday evening before everything changed in a parking garage.
Except it is not.
Because there is a box on my desk.
A small white box tied with a dark blue ribbon.
For a second, I simply stare at it.
The box is positioned in the exact center of my desk.
My first instinct is to look around, as if whoever left it is hiding in a corner somewhere.
Obviously, no one is there.
Still, my pulse starts misbehaving, jumping and stuttering.
I step closer.
There is a small card tucked beneath the ribbon.
No envelope. No name on the outside.
I pull it free and unfold it.
To replace what I destroyed.
That is all.
No signature.
My entire body goes hot.
“Oh my God,” I whisper.
I look toward the door again, just in case someone has decided to peep into my office.
No one.
I set my bags down slowly, then reach for the ribbon.
My fingers feel clumsy.
Which is absurd.
I have negotiated contracts worth millions of dollars. I have sat across from executives twice my age and told them their compliance programs were decorative at best. I have opened litigation notices with steadier hands than this.
But apparently a white box on my desk is my undoing.
The ribbon slides loose.
I lift the lid.
Then I stop breathing.
I drop the lid and beeline for the door, locking it.
Slowly, cautiously, I walk back to my desk and sit, suddenly weak.
