He glanced at the package label and called out, “Mr. Halverson?”
Reed didn’t know the man but did recognize the name from previous deliveries. Some mailmen in rural areas became friendly with their customers. Reed had never been that kind of mailman. He wanted his beer, not a conversation.
He rang again and then knocked on the glass, two sharp raps with his knuckles. He swiped at a bead of sweat that trickled down the back of his burnt red neck, an occupational hazard from sitting next to an open car window all day with the sun beating down on him. His armpits were oozing sweat, staining his shirt. He wasn’t running his car AC with the window down. Gas was expensive enough without wasting it.
He raised his voice: “Hello, it’s the mailman. Need a signature. If it goes back you probably won’t see it again.” He could see shimmers of heat in the air. He felt slightly dizzy. He was getting too old for this.
He aimed his gaze at the two cars. Had to be somebody home. He stepped away from the door and tilted his head back. There was no one peering at him from the dormer windows. One was open, making them look like mismatched eyeballs. He rapped again.
Finally, he heard someone approaching. He noted that the wooden door was cracked open a few inches. The sounds grew nearer and then stopped. Reed was hard of hearing or he would’ve noticed the odd sound of the footfalls.
“Mailman, need a signature,” he called out.
He licked his dry lips. He could see the quarter beer in his hand. Taste it.
Open the damn door.
He said, “Do you want your package?”
I could give a rat’s ass. I could just chuck it down a ravine, like I’ve done before.
The door finally inched open. Reed tugged back the glass portal, his hand extended, the package in it. “You got a pen?” he asked.
When the door opened more, he blinked. There was no one there. The door had opened all by itself. Then he glanced down. A miniature collie looked back up at him, its long snout and furry hindquarters swaying from side to side. It had obviously nosed the door open.