Rae Alcorn is suspicious of the package because life’s never handed her anything. Sitting on her plaid sofa near on six hours, bearing her neighbor’s name but Rae’s address.

She shouldn’t.

But the meek don’t inherit nothin. They inherit childhood on a dying farm, potatoes for lunch and dinner, a gamblin husband, junkie kids.

She tears in.

A potato peeler. Course it is.

She carries it to her back room, to a mountain of open packages. Sometimes she counts them, smells them. Years now she’s been swiping from doorsteps. Inheriting a bit of the blessed earth.