Th1rteen R3asons Why [antikvár]

"Sir?" she repeats. "How soon do you want it to get there?" I rub two fingers, hard, over my left eyebrow. The throbbing has become intense. "It doesn't matter," I say. The clerk takes the package. The same shoebox that sat on my porch less than twenty-four hours ago; rewrapped in a brown paper bag, sealed with clear packing tape, exactly as I had received it. But now addressed with a new name. The next name on Hannah Baker's list. "Baker's dozen," I mumble. Then I feel disgusted for even noticing it. "Excuse me?" I shake my head. "How much is it?"