The long, dead end hallway was a little daunting. On either side of Kamboja, post office boxes stretched along the length of the walls and across another at the far end. There were dozens and dozens of them, all around him, and for the life of him he could not find the one he needed. He flipped the little bronze key over in his hand and stared at the number etched across the top: “3274”. Why in the hell couldn’t he just remember where this stupid thing was?

He retraced his steps back to the open end of the hallway and looked for the row that began the 3200s. Double checking that no one was around to watch him about to make a fool of himself, he then put one dark finger against the dull metal of that faceplate and slowly began to trace the trail of boxes that lead to the one he wanted. A few rows and columns later and he was standing face to face with the elusive number 3274. As soon as it came into view, he instantly remembered standing in the same place a dozen times before – not that the memory had done him any good five minutes ago.

He let out an irritated sigh, mostly at his own stupidity, and reached up to shove the old, worn key into place. It opened with a click and he swung the faceplate out, revealing a box stuffed to the brim with three year’s worth of mail. He had originally gotten the P. O. Box so he could order his dirty magazines without his aunt and uncle finding out, but before his trip he’d also given it out to a few friends. He wasn’t here for the few magazines that had come before his subscriptions had run out – he was here because he had hope that his brother would have sent him something in the three years he was gone.

He reached out and pulled at one of the envelopes that was threatening to burst out, but as he pulled it from the mass it released the pressure and dozens of envelopes and magazines tumbled out and landed with an echoing smack at his feet. For the second time, he looked around to see if he’d drawn anyone’s attention with his failing luck. Once he was sure no one was looking his way, he squatted down and gathered all of it up into a mostly organized pile. Once he stood up again, he tucked all the magazines under one arm (he didn’t have to look to know what those were) and began to sift through all the letters that were left.

“Bo Hanley, junk, junk, bill, Bo Hanley, Bethany Higgins, junk, Bo Hanley,” he read off every return address as he sifted through the various pieces of mail. There was nothing with his brother’s name on it, but it had been a farfetched attempt in the first place. In the end, everything but the magazines, letters with girls’ names on the return address and the letters from Bo were dumped into a nearby trashcan. He closed the now empty box and walked back out of the post office with what he’d kept, looking for somewhere to sit down and go through them in peace.

He found a public bench not far from the post office and sat down, immediately stuffing the magazines and box key into the heavy army bag he’d been hauling around. He looked over the letters he had left and picked up the one with the most recent post stamp – one of the many he had from Bo. He ripped the top open and pulled out the single bright green sheet of paper inside. A quick glance told him it was a party invitation for St. Patrick ’s Day – the most recent one. He picked up another one with Bo’s name on it and ripped that top open too. The letter inside was yet another invitation, this time to a Halloween party. Every letter he opened with Bo’s name on it was a party invitation and he soon had three years worth of them scattered across his lap and the bench itself.

Kam couldn’t help laughing. As he picked up all of the letters he’d just ripped open and began to stuff them one after the other into the top of his bag, he was still laughing. Bo was the same as he’d ever been and somehow Kam was more pleased to come back to the dozens of invites than he would have been if he’d come back to a dozen real, sappy letters.

Once he had most of the letters stashed away in his bag (the ones from the girls entirely forgotten), he picked up the St. Patrick’s Day invite and glanced at the address in the upper left corner. With an amused smile on his face, he shouldered his bag and started to head off down the sidewalk with purpose in his step.

He had a house call to make.