Sara is beset by boxes. She fits them into each other like snug Russian dolls, compresses packaging as best she can, unfolds and flattens the boxes that allow for it.
She pauses. And sighs. She picks one up and walks with it into the utility room, adding a new Good Box to the now-teetering Good Box pile.
"But it is a good box. Might come in handy," she mutters to herself. One of those Good Boxes has a postage label on it from the 1990s. Good Box.
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