The Hidden

Duncan kept his office orderly. His desk was as ascetic as he could make it. It's only occupants were a monitor, a mouse, a keyboard, and a coaster for his coffee. Beneath his desk was a small cabinet with two drawers. Pens, a notebook, and other stationery sundries were kept in the top drawer, while the bottom housed copies of his qualifications, insurance documents, and the handful of workplace policies that he had never looked at but felt he probably shouldn't throw away. A bookcase nestled along one wall. The middle shelf contained several photos of his family, and the rest an annually-reviewed list of reference material. The books were ordered alphabetically by author. Even he thought that was a bit much, but he hadn't been able to resist.

It wasn't that he was a particularly fastidious person, outside of work at least. His car wasn't a pigsty, but it wouldn't have looked like his car without an empty fast food bag, coffee stains, and a handful of plastic dinosaurs jammed anywhere within toddler-reach of the baby seat. His home too was in a state of semi-permanent disarray, thanks in part to his pride and joy: a sticky, shrieking whirlwind of chicken nuggets that was his two and a half year old. Though, if he was being honest, he and Sarah had hardly kept the house spotless before Ellie had come along.

But work was different. At work, everything had to be in its place. He couldn't focus, couldn't think, if there was a folder on his otherwise pristine desk, a book out of place, an empty coffee cup on his coaster. Once, a few of his colleagues had deliberately switched two books on his bookshelf and taken bets on how long until he noticed. Duncan had accidentally foiled them by spotting and correcting the issue as soon as he walked back into his office, before their time-keeper even had a chance to start the timer.

He knew his quirks were a bit of an in-joke in the building, but he played along good-naturedly. After all, even he thought it was a bit weird. But it somehow felt like it helped. He couldn't quite explain why, except that work, life, the universe in general, was a chaotic, unpredictable place that constantly buffeted you around thoughtlessly. In his small sanctuary of structure, he had a place to stand. When he thought about it that way, it made a bit more sense. If you were going to move the world, you had to know where your lever was. And Duncan knew where everything in his office was.

Which is what made the package so perplexing.

Duncan wasn't sure when he first noticed the package. He had the uncomfortable feeling it had been there quite a while, sitting just outside his frame of vision. One day everything had been as it should, and the next the package had appeared, sitting clumsily at the edge of this desk.

Besides it's apparent ability to elude his office order, there was nothing remarkable about the package. It was about the size and shape of a hardcover book, and was wrapped in an innocuous brown paper. The paper was completely unadorned, no string or tape holding it together. There wasn't even a name or address printed on it. Nevertheless, he somehow knew it was his, in much the same way he knew it was his face when he looked in a mirror.

He also knew he didn't want to touch it.

That day, Duncan went to lunch early. He normally ate a simple sandwich at his desk, but that day he had to get out of his office, away from work completely, and give himself some space to consider the issue. For once, the efficient pandemonium of the city was a relief. He let the noise and smells distract him through the bedlam, until he found a small Chinese hole-in-the-wall his colleagues had all raved about. He ordered the number thirteen and began to mull over his problem.

The way he saw it, there were three problems. First: was the package even actually there? He'd barely glanced at it (he hadn't wanted to look at it), and he'd been feeling the eye-strain more than usual as he got older. When he thought about it, the little brown box was probably some sort of visual aberration. He hadn't touched it, after all. He made a mental note to schedule an eye exam.

Second: what was in the package? When he had first seen it he almost instinctively knew he didn't want to touch it. It had just felt wrong. Now, eating lamb and leek dumplings in a busy restaurant, he felt a little foolish. No doubt he had just been surprised, what with it appearing at the edge of his desk like that. It was ridiculous, of course. It was probably something completely benign, and the quicker he figured out what it was the quicker he could figure out what to do with it.

That was the final problem, of course. What to do with the package? He hadn't come up with a solution to that yet

---

When he returned to the office, Duncan invited Tom into his office. Tom was there to help him solve the first problem; not that he told him that of course. Tom was a good kid. He knuckled down and produced good work, and he was sociable without being schmoozy; Duncan had a vague idea he ran the office tipping competition or some such. Tom's only real weakness was that on the rare occasion things went wrong, he tried to fix it all himself before anyone noticed. The boy seemed almost allergic to asking for help. Duncan liked him; Tom reminded him a lot of himself when he was younger.

Tom was also famous for his stories, complete with spirited arm-waving that often resulted in things getting knocked over. The on-going joke was that Ducan had these chats with Tom so that he didn't have to clear his desk himself.

As they walked in, Tom had already launched into a story about a recent holiday. It was a typical young adult fare; a little risque, pushing the envelope without going too far in front of his boss. Without looking, Tom took the seat closest to the brown paper box, sitting half-turned away from it. Duncan lowered himself into the other chair; sitting across the desk in this sort of situation always felt awkward, and this way both the box and Tom were in his line of sight.

As Tom continued talking, Duncan felt his mind wander. Had the box gotten bigger since lunch? He could have sworn it had been the size of a book. Sitting here, half-listening to Tom describe cocktails in Tokyo, the box now looked bigger, about the size of a laptop. And how was he going to explain the box when Tom finally noticed it? It was inevitable at this point; with every flourish, his arm seemed to almost brush the top of the brown paper. The first question was obvious; "what's in the box?" And how would Duncan respond to that? "I don't know. I've been too afraid to look"?

Abruptly, Duncan wanted nothing more than for Tom to get out of his office. The idea of letting him see it — letting anyone see it — suddenly made Duncan feel sick to his core. He tried to remain calm, look in control, but he felt his whole body clench. He didn't mind being the office neat freak, he understood that, but this? The man who couldn't open a simple package, couldn't even look at it, could barely think about it?

He knew what he had to do. He had to get that box, get it out of the way, before anyone saw it. His breath started coming in short, stabbing pains, and his fingertips were tingling where he gripped the edge of the armrest. He had to get the box, get it now!

He pitched out of his chair suddenly, managing to stumble to his feet. He felt dizzy, and the shocked look on Tom's face seemed blurred. His legs were heavy, too heavy, but he stumbled forward past Tom. Swiping at the box, he felt his hand connect solidly with something, and then suddenly he was on his hands and knees.

Tom was saying something now, but Duncan couldn't hear him. He sounded so far away. But the box! The box was close, right underneath him. Tom hadn't seen it. Thank God, thank God, Tom hadn't seen it. Duncan couldn't hold himself up anymore. He gripped the box with one hand — it felt heavier, much heavier than he had expected — and with one last great effort shoved it beneath his orderly, ascetic desk.

As he fell flat on the ground, the only thing he could hear was a great buzzing in his ears and Tom, in the distance, calling for help