Burnsville, MN

It's written in cursive on manila masking tape that's stuck to a cardboard box with handles on the sides. Le Roy's box. Hands off. The box is similar to the cable lined RC cola boxes that hold what's left of my belongings in my mother's garage.

Le Roy, or the culprit stealing his box, is wearing three shades of blue. Worn Levi's pulled high above his hips, a navy collared button down shirt tucked into it's collapsing waistline, and a periwinkle adjustable baseball cap with a mesh backing teetering atop his white hair. Tight lipped, his lower jaw pushes forward as he reaches for the stack of white Styrofoam cups. He pours his coffee and drinks it black, his back still turned to me as I shift in my chair, attempting to make out the contents of the box.

Hands off.

My brother growing up had a Bible which he had written KEEP OUT!! on the binding. I had convinced myself that his Bible had been far cooler than mine, stories far more epic, or had been whittled into a book-safe. Knowing that the Lord worked in mysterious ways, I felt no shame in opening the book, as His devine intervention could have been targeting me through a new marketing scheme devised by the Catholic church.

Le Roy's flaw had been using cursive lettering, as it took away from the severity of the statement, much like the deliquent permanent marker scrawling had lost all authority when written across a Bible.