The old man and the young girl considered one another. Two animals meeting in the wood of this world; staring gravely, wondering upon the nature of the strange creature before them.

"How old are you, girl?" croaked Postmaster Mint.

"Fifteen, sir," Maddy whispered. He said nothing. Had he heard, she asked herself? She usually whispered, and often people didn't hear. They'd nod, assumed she'd said whatever they'd expected her to say. Wasn't like she said anything amazing. Yes. No. Okay. Fifteen.

Whatever the old man heard, for reply he sighed. Sighed with all the weight of his years. Was age weight, Maddy wondered? It seemed more like... depth. Oh, for sure. The older you grew the deeper into yourself you sank. Into that cave behind the eyes that everyone had. You started life as a kid dancing on the doorstep, joying in the world. But by old Mister Mint's age you'd wandered way inside. The outer world was just a chink of light far, far away. Easy to ignore. If you bothered, you'd frown towards it wondering what the hell people were muttering out there in the idiot world.

The idea appealed to Maddy. How wonderful if one could just back away from the door of one's face, turn around and retreat inwards. She pictured stepping into quiet, secret rooms far in the back of her head. She'd curl up inside some nook of herself and read a book. Let the outer world go hang. But she couldn't manage the trick. Clearly it took decades to escape the world. At fifteen she stood trapped on the bright loud doorstep. With everyone passing by, talking, barking, staring at her.

"Didja hear me, girl?" he asked. Not abrupt or angry. Not like a teacher catching her daydreaming. Just curious to know if there was communication occurring. Anyone on this line?

"Fifteen, sir," she repeated louder. Now he heard. Now he nodded.

"Right. Fifteen. God Almighty. Well, welcome to the post office of Hell, Texas. Good summer job. Isn't much to it. Sell stamps. Put things in slots and bins. Take things out of slots and bins."

The bell on the door jangled to announce the first customer of the day. A stranger wearing an overcoat from the prop closet of a black-and-white spy movie. A hat with brim pulled low. Hands in coat pockets, he turned this way and that, casing the scene. Looking for Agent X, who'd hand him a briefcase, take the secret folder...

Postmaster Mint studied this newcomer, nodded his head.

"Yep. This one'll make proper start. Hop to it, kiddo."

Maddy gulped. Closed eyes, took breath. Her school councilor was always recommending that. Panic attack? Close eyes, take breath, open eyes. She went to the counter, smiled in terror at the man, whispered something.

He barked a command. "What? Speak up, kid."

She flinched, whipped by the words. Took breath.

"Yessir. Can I help you?"

The man stared from under his hat brim. Like an angry cat hiding under the bed, glaring at the vacuum cleaner. He considered whether she could help him. Just a wispy girl peering out glasses modeled on submarine portals. If he waited he'd see a fish swim past her eyes. She wore t-shirt and jeans. The t-shirt declared in bold letters across her chest: 'My boyfriend went to Strawberry Fair and all I got was a ribbon for my hair.' He checked. She didn't have a ribbon in her hair. With that chest she probably didn't have a boyfriend.

"You actually work here, little girl?"

Maddy turned to Postmaster Mint, asking for confirmation. He sighed.

"Yeah, you work here."

Maddy turned back to the man. Whispered "Yessir."

The man brooded, then shrugged.

"Fine. I sent a letter to someone a month ago. Addressed here by, by mistake. I want it back."

She turned towards the wall, where the laminated sign titled 'Rules' hung. Cracked and worn as some clay tablet of Mesopotamian law.

"Undeliverable letters are returned to sender," she read aloud.

The man leaned forwards, elbows on the counter, his face near Maddy's.

"I forgot to put the return address on the envelope."

She nodded. "Oh, then it goes to the dead letter box. We throw them in the, in the, we dispose of them. A year after receipt."

He shook head. "Not good enough. I want it back."

Maddy turned to Postmaster Mint for help. He stood with back to her, hand to chin studying the coffee machine. Absolutely fascinated by it. She saw he wasn't going to help. Sink-or-swim time. On her own, then. She gulped, took a last deep breath before the inevitable sinking.

"Yessir." She took a notepad, found a fresh pencil. "Your name?"

"Smith."

Maddy penciled that down.

"Now you have to describe the letter."

"A white office envelope. Mailed from New York. Addressed to my lawyer. Joe Moscote."

Maddy nodded, penciled that. "Like 'mosquito'?"

"Oh, more than you'd know."

She finished her notes. Tucked the pencil behind an ear hidden by bangs and curls of tangled black. Then she opened a bin in the cabinet beneath the counter, pulled up a box. Rifled through letters. The stranger fidgeted. He considered reaching across, grabbing the box from the idiot girl. The old guy wasn't watching; just tinkered with the coffee machine. This place was one step above a lemonade stand.

But... the sign in the alley still spooked him. Like they'd known exactly what he was doing. Why not? Probably fools all across the world wrote to some ex-spouse or dead lawyer. Mocking with a last laugh, bragging with the last word. Or penning long whiny arguments why they'd had the right to do some shit-souled thing they'd did. Addressing it to Hell; mailing it off thinking they'd just danced on some sucker's grave...

Until second thoughts came in the night, like they do, like they do. Whispered suppose someone reads the letter? Until worry pushed them to trace the system, finding the only official post office for Hell. In the back hills of Texas... Yeah, for sure this hick town got a regular share of crazy strangers lurking around the post office. Still, that didn't mean they weren't dumb as bricks.

Maddy pulled forth a crisp white envelope. He knew it at once.

"That's it. Hand it over."

She looked to the rules sheet, recited. "Requesters of dead letters must identify the contents of the first line of the letter."

"You don't get to read it."

"Just the first line, sir," she whispered.

She worked at the envelope seal. Again he considered grabbing it. The old man now sat in a rickety chair, feet on the desk. Napping, baseball cap over eyes. A fake nap. The old guy was letting the girl handle it. Smart. That's how you got to be old.

"The first sentence?" He recalled the letter, saying the words to himself. 'Hey, Joe. Hot enough for you? Meant to tell you about the brakes before I lent you my car. My bad; I was thinking about your wife.' Shit, he couldn't risk even this mouse-girl reading that.

"Just hand it over, kiddo. Now."

She should have melted. She was fluff, and that was his rock-gravel voice. It'd made waitresses burst into tears, big men stutter apologies. He practiced his gravel voice before the mirror twice daily. But the girl didn't back away. She shook head till the pencil near fell from behind her ear.

"No sir. Rules are rules, Mr. Smith."

He almost asked, 'Smith who'? Didn't. Instead he growled.

"Who gives a shit about the rules?"

"My dad, sir. 'Cause he's the sheriff."

"Tell him rules are a stupid thing to get hurt over." The threat hovered in the air like smoke from a cheap cigar. In reply she whispered something.

"Speak up, you little idiot."

She adjusted the great circles of her glasses. "I said you can tell him yourself, sir. He's right behind you."

For a second 'Smith' paused. Then grinned. "There's a bell on the door, girl. I'd have heard him enter."

"Dad's got a special way of moving," she whispered. Adjusted the pencil behind her ear again. "Got a boot step quiet as a cat." She shook head. "It's freaky, he being so big."

The stranger prepared to tell her what he thought of freaks. He did not. Instead he studied the hand now resting upon his shoulder. Not an ordinary hand. This was a large hand. A very large hand, with various qualities of largeness. Large hairs sprouted from the large knuckles. Large callouses and big warts and thick scars decorated this hand like stickers on a race car. With five large fingers modeled on the claws of junk-yard machines that grabbed and crushed large cars. Not that this hand crushed. Yet. For now it merely rested, friendly as a condor suddenly perching upon the shoulder of a birdwatcher.

'Smith' considered whirling about. Snarling in his gravel-tone. But that hand seemed so calm. No point in alarming it. He cleared his throat.

"Ah, the letter starts 'Hey Joe'. That's, that's the first line."

Maddy nodded, carefully unfolded the single page, covering all but the top with her hand.

"Hey Joe," she read aloud happily. "Yep, that's exactly it." She folded the paper back up, put it into the envelope, then passed it across the counter. Smith snatched it, wadded it up in his fist.

The hand upon his shoulder remained perched happily; while its unseen mate moved to his coat pocket. It removed the pistol. Then it turned Smith about, guiding him towards the door. He struggled, looking up. Then up some more. Eventually he stared into a man's face. Ugly and happy as a jack-o-lantern perched atop a high brick wall.

The friendly hand of the law guided him to the door. Opened it for him. 'Ding ding', went the bell, cheerful as 'howdy' from the mailman. Smith stared out into the morning street. The huge man bent down, whispered. Low voices were obviously a family trait.

"Good day to you, Mr. Smith," whispered the giant. "So long, Mr. Smith. Bye now, Mr. Smith."

Then the hand shovedhim flying through the door, tumbling into the street.