“I’m telling you, I didn’t order a package,” said the owner of #5298 Richard Rd. “What would I even get that was that small?”

“Jewelry, maybe? A USB cable?” I held up the tiny package, which barely filled my palm. “Look, it says this address and requires signature confirmation, okay? If I don’t get it delivered and signed for, I might be fired.”

“And I’m not signing for some mysterious tiny little package I didn’t order!” countered Mr. 5298. “If CPS is gonna fire its drivers for that, well, that’s their problem, not mine!”

The door slammed in my face, and I trudged back to the waiting truck. Before I got there, I heard a small voice call to me from below.

“Aye, is that me package you got there, lad?”

I looked down, started, and saw an extremely tiny person standing at a little door in the hillside. No more than a few inches tall, he waved me down.

“Did you order a…signature confirmation CPS delivery?” I set the package on his “doorstep.”

“That I did lad! Dinnae ken why they got the address wrong, but it inna first time it’s happened an it wilna be the last.” He signed on the dotted line in comically tiny script with a quill pen.

“If you don’t mind me asking, what did you order?” I said.

“Ach, tis just a micro HDMI cable so I can watch the Netflix in better resolution,” the tiny man said. “The normal ones willna fit in me house, ye ken? Hard enough finding a smallscreen plasma that’d fit, but I dinnae think the cable would bollocks it up! Many thanks to ye.”

He tottered inside with the package in his arms and returned with a pair of quarters under his arm, dinner plates to him. “Here,” he added. “Something for your troubles, lad.”

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