The Scrapbook

           JackfoundthescrapbookonthefirstofNovember,whilehiswifeandsonwerehikinguptheruttedoldroadthatranfrombehindtheroquecourttoadesertedsawmilltwomilesfurtherup.Thefineweatherstillheld,andallthreeofthemhadacquiredimprobableautumnsuntans.

           Hehadgonedowninthebasementtoknockthepressdownontheboilerandthen,onimpulse,hehadtakentheflashlightfromtheshelfwheretheplumbingschematicswereanddecidedtolookatsomeoftheoldpapers.Hewasalsolookingforgoodplacestosethistraps,althoughhedidn’tplantodothatforanothermonth-Iwantthemalltobehomefromvacation,hehadtoldWendy.

           Shiningtheflashlightaheadofhim,hesteppedpasttheelevatorshaft(atWendy’sinsistencetheyhadn’tusedtheelevatorsincetheymovedin)andthroughthesmallstonearch.Hisnosewrinkledatthesmellofrottingpaper.Behindhimtheboilerkickedonwithathunderingwhoosh,makinghimjump.

           Heflickeredthelightaround,whistlingtunelesslybetweenhisteeth.Therewasascale-modelAndesrangedownhere:dozensofboxesandcratesstuffedwithpapers,mostofthemwhiteandshapelesswithageanddamp.Othershadbrokenopenandspilledyellowedsheavesofpaperontothestonefloor.Therewerebalesofnewspapertiedupwithhayrope.Someboxescontainedwhatlookedlikeledgers,andotherscontainedinvoicesboundwithrubberbands.Jackpulledoneoutandputtheflashlightbeamonit.

           ROCKYMOUNTAINEXPRESS,INC.

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