For a moment, I thought I was hallucinating.

I saw my neighbor across the road, an old man in his 80s, reach into his mailbox, only to pull his

arm out to reveal his hand suddenly gone.

The wrist now ending in jagged, yellow bone poking from black and flesh.

I watched on from my front window where I had been lazily staring out as I sipped my

morning cup of coffee. I often would see my neighbor come out to check his mail, then

get the newspaper at the end of his driveway,

as our little weekend morning rituals happen to coincide. On this Saturday, however, he never

did get around to grabbing the newspaper.

Bill Dockety stared at his nub for a moment.

He seemed to study the exposed bone with only a mild interest,

as if it were nothing more than a pesky paper cut.

Then he peered into the mailbox, retrieved his detached right hand with his still

working left and started back for his home, the dead hand still clutching to a few

pieces of mail.

I rushed into my kitchen and told my wife what I had just seen.

When I said it out loud, I realized just how insane it sounded, but I was adamant about what I saw.

Sarah looked up from a bowl of cereal quizzically.

His hand fell off.

One corner of her mouth turned upward in a slight smile.

Yeah, he reached in the mailbox, then pulled out a broken nub.

She paused for a moment, then laughed and shook her head.

...