A man named Fred was walking down his driveway to the mailbox. He neither expected any particular piece of mail nor cared if any had been delivered. All he wanted was the promise of a nice quiet day ahead.

It was early on a Thursday morning and neighbors waved as they drove off to work just as they did every weekday morning. Fred shuffled the pavement in soft-soled slippers; he was retired and had no clocks to watch, no traffic jams to curse through, no brown-bagged lunches and no stress. To keep himself active and busy, he built bluebird houses and puttered around the garden and sometimes helped his wife Fiona put away groceries.

Fred pulled open the mailbox door and reached inside. He gasped.