He examined the letterbox
cautiously, and then resolved to wait and watch someone else pick up their mail, which, fortunately, happened around the next five-or-so minutes.
The next person who hobbled in was a lasior character who, also fortunately, seemed to be in a characteristic state of sleepiness, and therefore did not express any nervousness when Seph bent and hovered over her shoulder, trying to see how she would withdraw the mail. She did it easily, if slowly. Raised her hand.
Wrinkled her nose.
Grimaced, puckered her lips, searched for her room number with deep whiffs.
Failed to find it.
Stepped right.
Squinted.
Maneuvered her hand level with the box outlined in the glass-like.
Flexed her claws, and reached in...
Once she did, the glass-like flickered, brightly where she contacted it but also in neighboring boxes, rippling like the surface of disturbed water; her hand ached through the glass-like to her wrist, and her hand fumbled with something beyond the glass-like, and in a moment she withdrew a clump of envelopes, most of which were impaled through her claws. She raised her hand to her face.
Wrinkled her nose.
Brought the envelopes to her nose...
Seph turned away and back to No. 38, and, with only the slightest hesitation this time, reached in. He didn't get as far as his wrist — the tips of his fingers immediately met something beyond the glowing glass-like, and he opened his hand up and managed to close it around a mashed handful of horribly crushed envelopes.
There was more. He grabbed another handful, and then another, and finally just began shoveling the contents of his mailbox into a sag in his shirt, appalled. Five handfuls now and there was still more. He gave up momentarily and staggered up the steps, pregnant with weeks' worth of post.
The next person who hobbled in was a lasior character who, also fortunately, seemed to be in a characteristic state of sleepiness, and therefore did not express any nervousness when Seph bent and hovered over her shoulder, trying to see how she would withdraw the mail. She did it easily, if slowly. Raised her hand.
Wrinkled her nose.
Grimaced, puckered her lips, searched for her room number with deep whiffs.
Failed to find it.
Stepped right.
Squinted.
Maneuvered her hand level with the box outlined in the glass-like.
Flexed her claws, and reached in...
Once she did, the glass-like flickered, brightly where she contacted it but also in neighboring boxes, rippling like the surface of disturbed water; her hand ached through the glass-like to her wrist, and her hand fumbled with something beyond the glass-like, and in a moment she withdrew a clump of envelopes, most of which were impaled through her claws. She raised her hand to her face.
Wrinkled her nose.
Brought the envelopes to her nose...
Seph turned away and back to No. 38, and, with only the slightest hesitation this time, reached in. He didn't get as far as his wrist — the tips of his fingers immediately met something beyond the glowing glass-like, and he opened his hand up and managed to close it around a mashed handful of horribly crushed envelopes.
There was more. He grabbed another handful, and then another, and finally just began shoveling the contents of his mailbox into a sag in his shirt, appalled. Five handfuls now and there was still more. He gave up momentarily and staggered up the steps, pregnant with weeks' worth of post.
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