Donovan hadn’t been expecting mail. The knock at the door startled him out of his whiskey-hazed stupor, where he’d been curled on the couch, nursing the ache of something old but still sharp. Patrick was out running laps around the neighborhood, steady and consistent as ever, which left Donovan alone as usual, with his thoughts for company.
He shuffled to the door, opened it, and stopped.
A large, sleek black box sat on the welcome mat. The return label rubbed away into smudged illegibility, but he knew what it was. His stomach tightened as he bent to pick it up.
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