The door to the warehouse that was now his home rolled aside revealing a black emptiness past its rough sanded frame. John’s face came forward into the harsh glare of the sodium street light still dripping in the evening fog and the shadows parted like a regretful curtain as he reached a gloved hand down to the parcel. The shadow of his hand rushed across the cement to caress the item before his hand reached it.<br/><br/>He looked at the inscription, his name. The form of the letters told him the writer was right-handed but the string was clearly tied by a left-handed person, most likely a woman. It was a woman’s knot. The package spoke of many people to his practiced eye an organization perhaps. Certainly a group that enjoyed some amount of secrecy<br/><br/>Snapping the string, John found the note and the items. Holding the card up to the light he noted the milky consistency to the blue paper. It was a fine sheet like those sold to the ladies of the Perl district. But no perfume…he sniffed it lightly. No, no perfume. This card had never been in the Pearl district. Curious.<br/><br/>Lastly, the script of the note gave him the indications of yet another person. The light female writing seemed to have been written in the presence of a single light because of its tilting letters that grew as they moved across the page, presumably toward the writers light source.<br/><br/>John briefly pictured a woman bent over a desk scratching at a blue note card, with the package beside her…cards. John mentally snapped fingers suddenly seeing the woman not with one note but several on her desk…yes, scratching at the notes and then giving tem to someone else who packed the parcels and finally someone who wrote the addresses.<br/><br/>Others would be getting these. At this very moment, others would be getting these notes, these theatrical packages. And for John, curious had long since given way to a need to know and he made ready to find out.<br/><br/>