Old Salt

A bulky brown 8.5/11 package lay innocently in the mailbox. Only her address scrawled on the flattest side indicated that it may be intended for her.
What was with the mail lately anyway?!

The package showed no obvious signs of postage. This was startling. It suggested a late night drive-by dropping, the person aware of where she lived, which mailbox belonged to her.

Her name was not on the mail box.
And her name was not on the package.
At least, she couldn't see it.

She gripped the package and headed inside, dropping her work bag at her side.
What the hell was this?
Images of mailbox bombs and suspicious correspondence filled her mind.
"That's crazy," she muttered.

This was nothing. This was small town America.
If someone wanted to drop mail personally for her, then fine. So be it.
At least it wasn't a court summons.

She poured a glass of Malbec, perhaps a little too early, sipped it, and proceeded to open the brown package.
As she tore the seal, and stared, shocked, at the crisp white pages that lay maliciously on the counter.

A yellow Post-It was on the top page.
"My Thesis" was all it read.

She gulped and set her glass down.
A notation on the page indicated publication.

Her stomach heaved.
He was published.

And the contents lay before her, having already been seen by the world.