Mrs. Chen's Voicemail and the Wet Coat at Mailboxes

Mrs. Chen's Voicemail and the Wet Coat at Mailboxes

I was walking home from the office in a drizzle that felt too cinematic, same route past the pharmacy and the bus stop. My phone kept buzzing with a voicemail from my neighbor, Mrs. Chen, except when I played it there was just breathing and a street name I didn’t recognize. I tried to call her back and the contacts list was empty except one entry labeled Don’t. The hallway in our building was longer than it should be, like it had borrowed the corridor from my old high school. A man in a wet coat stood by the mailboxes; he looked like my supervisor and also like the guy who works nights at the corner store. He asked if I’d found the envelope. I said I hadn’t lost anything. My keys wouldn’t turn in the lock. I felt that low, embarrassing dread of being late to something I couldn’t name, and then I woke up still listening for rain.