You have Mail. Your own mail, presumably not to be peered at by anyone before you get a chance to see it. You understand normal parental caution, but you are rather tired of circumventing your father’s examination of any and all post addressed to you. It’s not like you’re being sent *anthrax*, and it’s especially not as if you can’t tell when a letter has been steamed open. It’s really the only invasion of your privacy you bother to let on that you’re aware of, because of the horrid lack of effort in hiding it. At least other things are hidden with enough finesse as not to be an offense to your intelligence.

You suppose you’re a bit troubled today, but not more than a bit. It’s surprisingly easy to walk outside and retrieve your parcel. You hate easy things, but you will cope. You have a game to play, and hopefully one proving to be plenty difficult.

You take the trek back to your bedroom with an uncharacteristic haste, at an uncharacteristic time of day. You definitely make sure to have a bit of time outside at this particular hour, but you can excuse an upset to schedule for an occasion so momentous.

Your bedroom is a nice place to be, you think. All your taxidermy is nicely dusted, your favorites smiling at you from behind the glass of your display cases. Clark Kentia (your beloved Kentia Palm) is doing well, in the corner of your room, along with all of his flora family. Your bookshelves are arranged both alphabetically and by color, and even the few things you do drop unceremoniously on the floor are there because they are meant to be there. You’d look weird if you were too neat, what teenager doesn’t have a bit of a mess?