Ray Carver was an uncomplicated man. Fuck with him, sure, he'd punch ya. Things that he considered as fitting under the category of "fucking with Ray Carver" included, but were not limited to:

* Laying a finger on him, or Sue, or the kids, or his ma. His family was his family.

* Prying into his business, and that included asking about Sue's bruises. Or his kids'. Or his ma's.

* Snitching on him for slacking off at work.

* Cutting his electricity off for non-payment.

* Cutting him off at the bar for being too damn drunk already.

* Asking him to stop shouting.

* Mentioning his height, or lack thereof. Period.

Everyone knew he was a ridiculous little rooster of a man, but they also knew better than to say anything about it, because Ray would jump headfirst into any cockfight, spurs flying, and ask questions later.

As an uncomplicated man, Ray was poorly equipped to deal with the contents of the envelope he'd received. In normal circumstances, it would have ended up in the trash, either through his own impatience or via one of Sue's patient cleaning sweeps through the house. But things weren't normal. Ben was gone, there was a small knot of reporters in the street – you bet your ass they'd learned to back off after Ray'd punched that first photographer, but some of them were still there – and all Sue was doing was lying in bed with three-year-old Gracie and crying. The place was going to shit. Ray, out of work again, sat enthroned before the television surrounded by a slowly-growing nest of empty beer cans, going stir crazy. Sure, he could go out, but he'd be damned if he was going to answer any of those assholes' questions, and even Ray knew, dimly, that you could only clock so many members of the media before somebody pressed charges.

The whole thing was fucking ridiculous, in Ray's mind. Sue was the one who insisted on filing the report. The cops and the reporters were just making up stories. Ben had probably just decided to fuck off for a while to burn off some steam. Yeah, okay, Ben had never done it before, but all guys needed to do it once in a while. Ray himself had done it when he was young – hell, he still did it. Ben was off doing some sort of stupid shit – what did you even do for illicit fun at that age? – and when he came back, Ray was going to explain to him that it was not okay to make Sue worry like this. Explain so hard that the boy would never forget. He'd never used a belt on Ben before, but this was pushing it. If the belt was good enough for Ray's ma, it was good enough for Ray.

It wasn't until near the late afternoon of the second day and, not coincidentally, his second case of beer, that Ray idly picked the letter up again from the coffee table. Was it some sort of strange junk mail? He glared at it mistily through his alcoholic haze. What was this shit about missing kids? Weird that he'd gotten something about missing kids the day after his own kid –

Then it clicked. The penny dropped. The gears began turning. This had to do with Ben. He'd bet his life on it. What else was in the envelope? One of those little, what-d'you-call'em, claim things. For a locker. And it had the angel on it from Lexington. What the fuck. Did someone think he could fuck with Ray Carver and then fucking taunt him? Ray pitched his empty can at the television. "You just made a huge mistake, asshole," he announced to the ticket in his hand.

Shit, he knew Lexington Station. He had to go through there all the time when the rustbucket Pontiac was acting up. "You can't fuck with what's mine," he continued, rising unsteadily to his feet and searching for his shoes, "Not without getting your ass kicked."

"I'm going out, Sue," he shouted towards the bedroom. "Gotta do some shit." He hesitated, then asked awkwardly, uncharacteristically: "Do you need anything?" Poor woman. They usually had trouble thinking in cases like this. Not their fault, it was just one of those things where guys had to step up and be guys. There was no answer to his call, and he stalked out into the rain, slamming the door behind him. The close of the day had driven most of the reporters away, and the ones that were left seemed wary of him, as well they should be. He shot a glare of white-hot hatred their way as he moved to the Pontiac, and in return they eyed him cautiously, apparently hoping someone less fist-happy would emerge from the house.

He wasn't wasted, but he was definitely drunk enough that the drive to Lexington took all of his concentration. He wished he'd used some mouthwash before he left the house, just in case he got pulled over. The drive there, the walk in, and the identification of the locker were consumed by his effort to control his fury; he barely registered the people around him. Once Ray got a good rage going, it wasn't going to turn off until he was damn good and ready.

Inside the locker, there was only a single faded shoebox. Ray wasn't sure what he'd been expecting – somewhere in his head, he'd dimly imagined there'd be a face to punch – but it wasn't this. What was this shit?

Ray looked cautiously left and right – no one else was in the bank of lockers at the moment – and cautiously tipped back the lid on the box. Inside, there was a blank-screened, black cell phone, and a litter of small paper animals, all with numbers prominently scrawled on their sides. In that moment, the reality of what had happened to Ben sank in. It was true, what the cops and the news and everyone was saying. The Origami Killer, he had Ben. And the fucker had sent Ray Carver a box of origami to prove it.

"Jesus," he said in a horrified voice, staring. His motions were slow, almost hypnotized as he reached into the box towards the black "1" on the chest of the pink rabbit. He turned it over and over, examining it from all sides, confused. What did it mean, a rabbit? He pulled it open, tearing the paper slightly, hands shaking with anxiety and booze. On the interior was a neatly printed message:

ARE YOU PREPARED TO SHOW

YOUR COURAGE IN ORDER TO

SAVE YOUR SON?

TURN ON THE PHONE

LISTEN TO THE MESSAGE