It's Saturday, and Stede's at work. He putters up the small hill to the next house on his route, his little postal truck engine grumbling along. He double checks his bin, places a single Knives Monthly magazine into the plain black box, and then gutters on to the next house. His heart flutters a bit in anticipation.
Because the next house is nestled in a grove of trees on the other side of a small cornfield. The next house is a trim log cabin with a beautiful garden full to bursting with wildflowers.
The next house is his house.
Owned by a man that Stede can't stop thinking about.