"Sir?" she repeats. "How soon do you want it to get there?"

I rub two fingers, hard, over my left eyebrow. The throbbing has become

intense. "It doesn't matter," I say.

The clerk takes the package. The same shoebox that sat on my porch less

than twenty-four hours ago; rewrapped in a brown paper bag, sealed with

clear packing tape, exactly as I had received it. But now addressed with a new

name. The next name on Hannah Baker's list.

"Baker's dozen," I mumble. Then I feel disgusted for even noticing it.

"Excuse me?"

I shake my head. "How much is it?"

She places the box on a rubber pad, then punches a sequence on her

keypad.

I set my cup of gas-station coffee on the counter and glance at the screen. I

pull a few bills from my wallet, dig some coins out of my pocket, and place

my money on the counter.

"I don't think the coffee's kicked in yet," she says. "You're missing a

dollar."

I hand over the extra dollar, then rub the sleep from my eyes. The coffee's

lukewarm when I take a sip, making it harder to gulp down. But I need to

wake up somehow.

Or maybe not. Maybe it's best to get through the day half-asleep. Maybe

that's the only way to get through today.

"It should arrive at this address tomorrow," she says. "Maybe the day after

tomorrow." Then she drops the box into a cart behind her.

I should have waited till after school. I should have given Jenny one final

day of peace.

Though she doesn't deserve it.

When she gets home tomorrow, or the next day, she'll find a package on

her doorstep. Or if her mom or dad or someone else gets there first, maybe

she'll find it on her bed. And she'll be excited. I was excited. A package with

no return address? Did they forget, or was it intentional? Maybe from a secret

admirer?

"Do you want your receipt?" the clerk asks.

I shake my head.

A small printer clicks one out anyway. I watch her tear the slip across the

serrated plastic and drop it into a wastebasket.

There's only one post office in town. I wonder if the same clerk helped the

other people on the list, those who got this package before me. Did they keep

their receipts as sick souvenirs? Tuck them in their underwear drawers? Pin

them up on corkboards?

I almost ask for my receipt back. I almost say, "I'm sorry, can I have it

after all?" As a reminder.

But if I wanted a reminder, I could've made copies of the tapes or saved

the map. But I never want to hear those tapes again, though her voice will

never leave my head. And the houses, the streets, and the high school will

always be there to remind me.

It's out of my control now. The package is on its way. I leave the post

office without the receipt.

Deep behind my left eyebrow, my head is still pounding. Every swallow

tastes sour, and the closer I get to school, the closer I come to collapsing.

I want to collapse. I want to fall on the sidewalk right there and drag

myself into the ivy. Because just beyond the ivy the sidewalk curves,

following the outside of the school parking lot. It cuts through the front lawn

and into the main building. It leads through the front doors and turns into a

hallway, which meanders between rows of lockers and classrooms on both

sides, finally entering the always-open door to first period.

At the front of the room, facing the students, will be the desk of Mr. Porter.

He'll be the last to receive a package with no return address. And in the

middle of the room, one desk to the left, will be the desk of Hannah Baker.

Empty.