The Department of Material Affairs

"I didn't order this," I said, confused, as the shady looking delivery guy held the simple, brown package out, toward me.

"Is this your name, and address?" he asked, as he seemed to glare at me from behind the too-dark sun glasses. I leaned from left to right, in an attempt to catch a glimpse of what hid behind those darkened lenses.

"Yes," I answered hesitantly, as my eyes shot to the postage label. Maybe it was a gift from someone? Though, I didn't know anyone from the... "DMA?" I found myself asking. The delivery guy didn't move, or seem to even acknowledge that I'd asked a question. I hadn't really been asking him, though, I guess. Why did I have a feeling that he might know something about this package, anyway? He was just a delivery guy, after all.

I gripped the package, carefully, as he handed it to me. Why did I get this feeling that there was something dangerous inside? Like, I don't know, a bomb? I put the package to my ear as I turned away from the door. No ticking. I'd heard, somewhere, that modern bombs didn't tick, though. Whatever. It wasn't a bomb. That would be stupid. I was definitely not important enough for a mail bomb, and agencies comprised of three letters didn't send bombs to people's houses, as far as I knew. That didn't help the uneasy feeling in my stomach, though.

The delivery guy was already half way to his van by the time the door clicked shut, behind me. As much as I just wanted to toss it on the counter, and forget about it for a while, my curiosity got the better of me. I went to the kitchen, and pulled out a knife, to cut the package open. I should have known the first time that I saw that unassuming, little, black book, that it was going to be trouble. It looked like a journal, or something. It had a simple, sleek design, and one of those bookmark strings, about a quarter of the way through its pages.

"Hmmm," I found myself humming, as I opened to the marked page. There were numbers written in what seemed to be some kind of ledger for a business. Each numerical entry was written in black, though... the numbers seemed to have each been written by a different hand, with some having different currencies attached to them. Most were in dollars, but I noticed that the symbols for the yen, and the euro, were quite common, as well. What was eerie, though, were the words, written in red, next to each of the numerical values.

They seemed to be written in the same, clear, clean writing, each sharing the language of their monetary counterparts. The descriptions were weird, though. They were only, like, one or two words, at most. They seemed to be descriptions based on the monetary values.

"A million dollars -- life insurance," I remember saying it out loud, but, as I went to read more, a short, well-written note, in the same handwriting as the words in red, fell out from the front of the book. It was written in black ink.

"Dearest Recipient,

You have been given a unique opportunity. The ledger before you is a wish list of sorts. Write a monetary value, and we, the Department of Material Affairs, will do everything in our power to make sure that you receive said value. Only write one denomination of currency, please.

Sincerely,

Wanda Syng, CEO of the DMA"

I just laughed, for a while, then. That was cryptic. This was definitely some kind of joke. The problem was... I called everyone that I could think of that would pull such an elaborate prank on me. I even called a few that would never prank me. The answer was similar, if not exactly the same, from each of them. They had no idea what I was talking about.

"You're always asking for money," my Mom said, when I called her, "Why not just write a number?" she asked, "What's the worst that could happen?"

I shrugged, and both of us laughed, then. As we said our goodbyes, and hung up the phone, I stopped, suddenly. It might have been a joke, but, she was right. The worst thing that could happen is that they didn't, somehow, procure the money, right? So, I determined a reasonable sum, and then, feeling stupid, I wrote in the monetary value.

"Twenty-thousand dollars," I read, aloud, followed by a nervous chuckle. Even though I laughed, something didn't sit right with me. So, I marked the page, and closed it up; as if that would make me feel better. I guess I was supposed to send it back? Was there some kind of time limit, on that? What kind of a question was that? Of course I'd have to ship it back, if they were really going to send me money. It was probably some kind of scam, anyway. I tossed it on the counter, and promptly forgot about it, until a few days later, when I got a call from the local sheriff's office.

My mother had been in a car accident. She hadn't made it. My stomach dropped. I didn't know why, then, that the ledger was the first thing to pop into my head, but... after I hung up the phone I could feel myself breathing, heavy, as I moved toward it. My gut was twisted into knots. What was I expecting? I hadn't sent the ledger back, so... why did I feel like something had changed? Why did I feel like I knew what it was going to say?

My hands were shaking as I opened up the little, black book, for one, final time. There, next to the "$20,000" that I had scrawled, just as I hoped they wouldn't be, were the words "Mother's Will," in bright, red ink.