There must be meth heads who check mailboxes at 3 AM. Or the mail guy just might decide to do a shift early now, and find it in there and steal it. Then this would all be for nothing. The risk, the detour, this whole staking out.
All I have to do is not leave, so it won't end up in the wrong hands.
I move the car. Just a little closer. Still under the oak at the end of Citrus Grove, but now angled so I can see the mailbox straight on in my rearview mirror. Clear line.
I kill the headlights. Kill the engine. Crack the windows just an inch so I can hear. So I can hear if someone touches that metal door.
Midnight.
12:00 becomes 1:17 AM.
Davenport is quiet in a way Long Island never is and never will be. No sirens. Just sprinklers kicking on in other lawns, ch-ch-ch-ch. A dog barking somewhere three streets over. The oak leaves moving.
