Picture a hash brown. Yep. There it is. Right there. Would you look at that? A golden oval of

crispy deliciousness. From where? Well, you already know. Breakfast, done properly.

Served until 11 a.m.

Dr. Nicely. The sound of the male flap clinking wakes me, and I almost... properly. Serve until 11 a.m. Talk to nicely.

The sound of the male flap clinking wakes me,

and I almost sit up at the sound.

But luckily remember at the last second that I had been shot.

The intense pain in my abdomen is also a good reminder

that I'm not going to be doing crunches anytime soon.

No one there, Milo says. His face pressed to the stained glass.

Never is, I say and sigh. It hurts to even sigh.

When it was just me in the house, I tried putting duct tape over the mail slot. It didn't work. The letter would still be there

on the rug just after dawn. I studied the doorbell camera footage intensely, but nothing ever

showed up. I even camped out on the front porch to see if I could catch the mysterious delivery

person red-handed. But dawn after dawn after dawn, I met nothing but failure.

And there was a letter on the rug when I went inside.

Did she take the food? I ask as my head throbs.

Looks like it, Milo says. Then he turns from the door and looks down at me.

What? You don't look good, he says.

I'll get you some aspirin.

Ibuprofen is better, I say.

It's the blue lid.

...