“Custom critical,” read the label on the box. You, looking miserable, heard the clicking of the locks. What’s “critical” when they cuff your hands behind your back? “It’s pitiful, but it’s just a fact of life,” is what he said. Stuck in a tight one. All the boxes packed inside. Sweat on your forehead wets the tape across your mouth. They drag you past the shipping clerk with a bill of goods in his hand. It’s clinical. Mr. Blacksleeves pulls you out and he says “Just shut your mouth and keep your face to the wall.” Looked up your address. Waited outside your house to see the look on your face. I’d trade it for nothing.