It did not move either.
That was what slowed me down.
Most prank boxes have a tell.
A rattle.
A slit cut for a hidden camera.
A bit of fishing line tucked under the flap.
Somebody wants the officer to jump.
Somebody wants a reaction.
This box just sat there, sealed tight and cooking.
I walked closer with one hand on my belt and the other already reaching for my folding utility knife.
The duct tape had been wrapped around more than once.
Not messy.
Not careless.
Hard and deliberate.
The closer I got, the less angry I felt.
Something else moved in behind my ribs before my head had a reason for it.
The gravel crunched under my boots.
The highway stretched empty in both directions.
No parked car.
No laughing teenagers.
No phone held up from behind the brush.
Just the box, the heat, and that ugly tape.
