For delivery...
A desolate, sandy lot and a yellowing trailer. When Jerry said 'out in the middle of nowhere', he wasn't kidding.
Henry looked down at the crumpled paper for what seemed like the hundredth time, then at the crooked mailbox. It was the right place and he could just slip in the box...no, he'd been given strict orders to deliver it personally.
Well, I'm here, ain't I?
He took a quick, sharp breath and knocked loudly on the door. He didn't notice the blinds of the window shift suddenly. A man answered. He was tall and lean as a beanpole, with dirty blonde hair and hard brown eyes that glared at Henry accusingly. He was holding a denim shirt in his grasp, knuckles white.
Henry checked the paper again quickly. "Mr. del Mar?"
"Ennis." The voice was gravelly, seemingly older than the fourty-something the man seemed to be.
"Right. Uh, this is a package for you. Sir."
The man named Ennis looked at the box in question, his expression deadpan. "Who's it from?"
"Someone by the name of...", another quick glance at the paper, "Alma."
"Alma?"
"Junior."
"Oh...where do I sign?"
"Uh, um," he handed the man the clipboard and the pen, pointing at the blank square, "right there...yeah, right. Thanks, Mr. del Mar." He handed him the package. "Have a good-"
But the man had shut the door and had retreated back to the darkness of his trailer. Henry sighed and got back into the second hand car, and pulled out of the lot.
The man, once inside the safe isolation of the nook assigned to his bed, ripped off the brown paper and took out the shoebox. It was worn and faded like everything else that bore witness to what once was. He read the postcards, despite how sore his eyes would be looking at the print, and drank himself to sleep, clutching the half-open box to his chest.