"When I was a kid and my parents wanted to fight, they sent me to the room they called the office, a small unpainted corner of the house filled with all the crap and suitcases they never unpacked. I hated the office because the box talked to me there. I told the box to shut up, but everything it said came true. All the people it said would die, and how. When it told me I would be taken into foster care by Christmas, well, it was right about that, too. Now, twenty years later, I live across the country, in a house with no unpainted corners. My wife and I almost never fight. But this morning, a package was waiting outside the door, my address and first name handwritten in jagged blue marker. I already know what's inside."