Gemotions

“Well, this is just great,” I muttered, kicking the package across the threshold. Addressed to "Mr. Harold Finch," and no forwarding address. The old miser who’d lived here? Wonderful. My mind raced.

Every muscle in my body seemed tense. I hadn’t known him long, but I knew he was a recluse. Was this some delayed junk mail? Or… something else?

I grabbed a pair of gloves and, with a deep breath, retrieved the box, intending to take it to the dumpster. Better safe than sorry.