He wished the only thing he saw was his father approaching, yet Ben’s reflection – a blank face with eyes that had seen the defeat of hope one too many times before – watched the glare on his parent’s face grow more contemptible. “Benjamin,” he grunted, grabbing his son’s collar the same way one grabs their dog. “Sorry, ma’am. My son’s a touch slow.”

He spun on his feet at the motion, heels digging into the still-wet mud. His father’s knuckles pressed on his skin. He could’ve moved; why hadn’t he moved?

“Apologize, Benjamin.”

The boards underneath the shop’s porch groaned as the woman shifted. “He’s not disruptin’ business ‘r anything, so don’t concern yourself, Mr. Price. Your son’s a sweet – ”

“Regardless, I apologize on both our behalf, ma’am,” he said again, tightening his grasp on Ben’s collar. As they passed the butcher’s, he shoved him forward. “Go deliver that like you were supposed to. Do not come back until you’ve done it.” His father sighed, lips twisted into a frown. He turned and moved back towards the general store.

Ben watched him leave, the cool autumn air cutting through his thin clothes. The boy adjusted the package, wrapped tightly in brown paper and tied with twine, in his arms. He kept his eyes low, coldness creeping back through him. “Sorry, Papa.”

Using his knee to balance the parcel, Ben turned, heading towards the Durmont post office. The further he moved away from Broad Street – more a muddy road than the brick street laid just a year ago – the more he found his breaths easing. He kept his eyes down. People saw him. They nodded their heads, and he to them when he could make eye contact. Benjamin Price did not smile. People deemed him “sullen”. “Withdrawn”. “Slightly touched”. “Slow”.

Everyone seemed to linger, specters ever watching.

He moved a little faster, trying to ignore the poor night’s sleep creeping in.

Like the rest of town, the post office was much loved and much neglected, its colors worn from years of sun, rain, sleet, and snow. The building, a squat two-story structure, sat nestled, crooked, into the side of the Durmont River Railroad Inn, the hotel’s pointed roof standing nearly as tall as the town church. There was never a day where the stables were not busy, crowded with passengers and deliveries moving between the train station in nearby Norton back to Durmont’s farmsteads due east.

In the distance, a locomotive’s whistle cried out. Ben glanced towards it, watching for the signs of its presence on the horizon. He did not care for the trains themselves, yet he still wished he could watch the boxcars loaded and unloaded with a multitude of goods. Boxes and crates of produce, livestock, perishables, bags of mail, special deliveries, all from a world larger than his own.

He tried not to linger.

“Mr. Price?” a man called, his blue-gray uniform appearing as he emerged from the darkness of the post office, treading down the front steps, a lopsided smirk adorned his lips. The outfit, wearing down with age, appeared immaculate despite the buttons scratched and his hat, a structured flat cap with black brim, in a similar condition. One black star hung on the postman’s sleeve.

“Mr. P – ” Ben fumbled, nearly dropping the package.

The older man chuckled, a breathless sound, grabbing it before it left the fourteen-year-old’s grasp.

“M-Mr. Pryce, I’m sorry.” Ben’s face burned red.

“No worries, you are –” the postman started but stopped.

Ben glanced down, an unearthed stone having torn away the sole of his boot. He sighed, kneeling down to assess it. “I...still, I-I do apologize, fer the, the inconvenience, Mr. Pryce,” he whispered, pushing the parcel into the man’s arms. “This’s from my father; it should be pre-paid. I-I should –”

The man shuffled the package under his arm. “Let me make sure your foot is all right,” he said, his hand suddenly resting on Ben’s shoulder. He stood, pulling Ben with him before letting go.

“No, I-I should go back.”

Mr. Pryce stood. “I understand, but I cannot, in good conscience, let you return home with shoes like those.”

He was always like that, Mr. Gus Pryce, yet the boy still felt dreadfully bothersome in the man’s presence. He transferred to Durmont four years ago, leaving behind his wife and two children in Allisport. Despite the separation, he clearly enjoyed the position; letters from Mrs. Pryce came regularly, some accompanied by photographs which the postman showed Ben, his associate, and anyone willing to see them. The eldest boy’s sixth birthday portrait was the most recent addition, framed, sat beside his youngest son’s baptismal picture.

“Mr. Price?” he asked again. The look on his face, softened by concern, meant Ben could not reject the offer.

Maybe Mr. Pryce pitied the stammering, quiet boy, being so far away from his own children.

Ben wouldn’t consider that he cared. Very few did. Yet he still nodded, following the man inside.