Metal teeth turned, ground against tumblers, and released. The mailbox swung open, and a few stray envelopes fell free. Ethan muttered and bent to retrieve them, pulled everything from the box, and relocked it. He flipped over the newspaper and read as he made his way to the door.

Page 1: Election Results

Page 2: Op Ed

Page 3: Doonesbury on blogging

Page 4: Local Zoning (con’t from page 1)

Page 5: Weather map

Page 6: Quarterback Traded

Page 7: Crossword puzzle

Page 8: For Sale-Honda Civic, Silver

“Nothing.” Shutting the door behind himself, Ethan dropped the paper on the table, shrugged out of his jacket and slung it across the corner of the couch (a hand-me-down futon from an ex-girlfriend), and flipped through his mail. Mostly local business circulars. One #10 envelope, though, held his attention. He tore it open carefully, and, with trembling fingers, unfolded the sheet within. The familiar logos of state and county utilities companies topped the sheet. At first, his lips moved, silently, as he read. Eventually, though, he was reading the entire letter aloud, pausing to digest some quote or statistic, accenting certain figures by raising his voice nearly to a shout. His heartrate rose. His face flushed. His teeth clenched, as did his knuckles. Finally, he hissed a single word.

“Lies.”

He crumpled the mass-mailed letter and let it fall. The sheet bounced slightly and rolled beneath the futon. Ethan’s brow furrowed as his mind rewound the letter, pulling out key passages. Picocuries. Lime deposits. 12%. Sulfides. Three years time. Reservoir. Water table. Safe. Class action suit. Bone cancer.

Still seething, Ethan dropped onto the couch and snatched up the remote. He clicked the television to life. Buffy was on. A good dose of demon-slaying seemed appropriate. Cheering on the heroine would do him good. Maybe Faith would be in this episode.