The Wednesday Nobody Ordered | Boomerverse Yarn #013

The Original Boomer woke to someone calling from the veranda. “Delivery!” He rolled over. It was Tuesday. Or at least it had been Tuesday when he went to bed. “Leave it by the door!” A pause. “Needs a signature!” Boomer sat up. He had never met a parcel that arrived without trouble, but this one was making an early effort. He pulled on his boots, straightened his battered hat and opened the front door. Nobody stood there. On the mat sat a narrow brown parcel tied with string. There were no footprints on the damp boards. No tyre tracks on the drive. The label read: DELIVER WEDNESDAY — 8:17. Underneath, in smaller letters: RECIPIENT NOT CONFIRMED. Boomer checked the clock. 8:16. He looked back down. The parcel had moved a few centimetres towards the threshold. “Oh no, you don't.” He picked it up. It was surprisingly light. From somewhere underneath his kitchen floor came one knock. He remembered the counting marks, the vanished third mark and the message COUNT WHAT'S MISSING. He took the parcel to the shed instead. There, on the workbench, he untied the string. Inside was a little wooden box, no bigger than a tobacco tin. The lid was carved with three shallow grooves. Only two remained dark. The third looked newly sanded. He opened it. Empty. Except for a receipt printed on yellowing paper. ITEM: ONE RETURN. QUANTITY: 1. PAID: NO. COLLECTED: NO. Below that was a line for a signature. It already carried his name. Boomer Harding? No. The writing simply said: BOOMER. “Forgery,” he told the shed. The receipt changed as he watched. ITEM: ONE WEDNESDAY. QUANTITY: UNKNOWN. Boomer shut the box. At 8:17 the shed light dimmed. Outside, every bird call stopped. Rain hanging from the roof gutter seemed to pause for the smallest moment. Not a full frozen world like the pub. Just a hesitation. Then a magpie gave a furious squawk and everything resumed. Boomer looked at his watch. 8:18. His phone, however, said Wednesday. He switched it off. “Not playing.” He drove to the town post office with the parcel on the passenger seat. He wanted a sensible human to tell him it had been delivered by mistake. The woman behind the counter turned it over. “No tracking number.” “Correct.” “No sender.” “Correct.” “No postage.” “That's the best part.” She examined the label. “What day did it arrive?” “Today.” She glanced at the wall calendar. “Wednesday.” Boomer looked up. The calendar said Wednesday. Outside the window, a handwritten sign advertising Tuesday's pie special still hung in the bakery. The post office clock read 8:17. It had been nearly an hour since he left home. Boomer took the parcel back. “Thanks. You've been no help at all.” “Any time.” As he opened the door, a muffled knock came from the parcel. Twice. He hurried to the ute. The box was still closed. But its receipt now showed a new line: DELIVERY ADDRESS: WRONG HOUSE. Boomer stared at it. He'd seen those words before, carved beside his front door after the Friday knocks. The receipt was trying to send him somewhere. It gave no address. Only three tiny sketches. A crooked fence. A red door. A lantern. He knew the house from the impossible forestry track. The one that had vanished at 8:17. He wasn't going back there. Not on a Wednesday that might not exist. Instead he drove home by the long road. He passed the old creek crossing where he'd found the mug marked TWO. He passed the turn towards the abandoned railway siding with its blue gate. The landmarks were ordinary. Until he reached the last bend before his house. There, in the grass, stood a postbox. Bright red. Unmarked. It faced the wrong way, towards the bush rather than the road. Boomer stopped. He'd never seen it before. On the slot were two words: NOT YET. The parcel on the seat gave a gentle tap. Then another. He looked from the box to the postbox. “Absolutely not.” The postbox lid opened by itself. Inside was a perfectly dry enamel mug. White, with a blue handle. On its side was the number: TWO. Boomer remembered leaving an identical mug beside the old creek crossing. He did not assume it was the same one. “I'm not collecting the whole set.” He kept driving. Behind him, the postbox door clicked shut. At home the kitchen clock still showed Tuesday. His phone had returned to Tuesday too. The parcel was no longer on the passenger seat. He searched the floor, the boot and under the seats. Nothing. He went inside. On the kitchen table lay the little wooden box. He hadn't carried it there. Its lid was open. The receipt had been folded into a paper arrow pointing towards the cutlery drawer. Underneath the box sat a small brass disc. He recognised the shape from the pub where the day had slipped. But he couldn't say it was the same disc. One side was blank. The other read: NOT THE SPOON. Boomer stared at it. “So now it's not the spoon.” The drawer opened a finger's width. Inside, the Zeehan teaspoons clinked together. He didn't touch them. Instead he turned the brass disc over. Letters had appeared on its blank side. NOT THE HOUSE. He looked towards the veranda. The words scratched into its timber remained: WRONG HOUSE, BOOMER. WRONG TIME, TOO. He checked the newspaper on the kitchen bench. LOCAL MAN STILL HASN'T RETURNED IT. For a moment the pieces seemed to be pointing at something. A missing object. An incorrect destination. A particular moment. But he had no proof they belonged to one puzzle. He pushed the drawer shut. “Not solving that before dinner.” At sunset, the box gave a single knock. Boomer looked at it. The three grooves on the lid had changed. Only one remained dark. Inside, the receipt now carried a fresh instruction: DELIVER TO THE ONE WHO REMEMBERS. Boomer read it twice. He thought of the distant figure, the unseen visitor, the last thylacine whose secrets were not his to explain, and the many other things he did not know. Then he put the box on a shelf, out of reach of the kettle. Outside, in the fading light, a lantern flashed blue. Once. And from somewhere beyond the trees came a low voice he couldn't identify. “Wednesday wasn't missing.” A pause. “It was waiting.” Boomer stood very still. By the time he reached the veranda, the light was gone. The postbox had disappeared too. Only a small square of damp earth remained by the road. On it lay a delivery card. No date. No address. Just two words: SIGN HERE. End of Yarn #013.