Beads of sweat popped like stitches from the seams of his forehead, trickled down beneath his sunglasses, along the bridge and off the tip of his very long nose, falling—plop, plop, plop—full, pregnant with the intent of staining the parcel he cradled in his lap. He brushed them off in haste. Not a particularly small man, he nevertheless appeared dwarfed by the excess size of his suit, which seemed to expand in the summer sun until finally he looked like a child, dressed for Sunday Mass, or a wake. Indignantly he squinted through his tinted lenses as the late afternoon sun exploded back out of the windows of the west-facing buildings like a pyre. A black leather briefcase sat protected under the park bench, and the glossy, multi-colored wrapping paper of the package bounced the sun’s reflection beneath his sunglasses, further blinding him with light.