THE HUNDRED-AND-EIGHTEENTH PAGE

And the rotting rat rolled out of its coffin and into the midst of the parcels. Mission accomplished, (thanks a lot!) the dog bounded from the car, leaving behind his messy prize to be handled by the intended recipient. Using a couple of small fallen branches as tongs, I lifted the rat from the back of the car and tossed it down the hill where it could continue its decomposition. The manuscript carton was placed nearby in the roadside trash bin. If there was a message for me inside the carton, I would not be seeing it because there would be no further exploration of its putrid contents. I did note, however, with sudden, genuine terror that the return address was from distant Brooklyn and it had been sent by Rodya Raskolnikov. I would know not to open any more cartons from famous figures of fiction. Two were playing the game; and it appeared it was being played by the rules I had laid down many months before.

I, perhaps gingerly, gathered up the other packages and took them into the house. The dog, perhaps proudly, trotted in behind me and the parcels. He could not know what the arrival of the package might usher in. He could not know, as I did, that a war had, maybe, begun.