For My 56th Birthday, My Stepdaughter Gave Me A Pair Of Earbuds. I Was Genuinely Happy—Until I Showed Them At Work. One Coworker Leaned In For A Closer Look, And His Expression Changed. “Don’t Use These,” He Whispered. “You Need To Report This Today.” I Didn’t Make A Scene. I Took Them Off, Filed A Report, And Let The Paper Trail Do Its Job. Three Days Later…

Quiet guy. Notices things. He turned one earbud over in his fingers, then the other.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t joke. His face drained so fast it was like someone had pulled a plug.

“Ray,” he said, lowering his voice. “Where’d you get these?”
“My stepdaughter,” I said. “Why?”
He swallowed, looked around the break room.

“You need to take these to the police.”

I laughed, reflex. “What? You think she put a bomb in them?”

Dennis didn’t laugh back.

“I think they’ve been messed with, and not in a good way.”

Something in my stomach dropped. Not fear yet. Just that cold sense you get when a machine makes a noise it shouldn’t.

I stuffed the earbuds into my jacket pocket and finished my sandwich without tasting it. That night, Toledo was locked in one of those gray winter spells where the sky presses down on you. Snow along the curb was black with road salt.

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