He waited two days. No more came. It was over.
He ate the last package.
The refrigerator worked perfectly, and he began to stock it with things freezers are conventionally stocked with.
It was almost two weeks after the last package had appeared, early one Sunday morning, when the doorbell rang.
At the door was a small, nondescript man with a vaguely—and really indefinably—unpleasant aspect. His head was bandaged.
"Mr. Coxe?" he asked.
"That's me."
"May I come in?"
"Come on."