You often find your mind drawn back to that one strange day on the moors, and today is no different. You consider the cloaked men as you drain water from the boiled potatoes. You pull the masher from the utensil drawer, transfer the starches to a plastic bowl, and set to work. Just getting old, you suppose, it's normal for the mind to dwell on youthful days. You consider adding cream or butter to the mashed potatoes, but decide against it. Leave that adventure to the young, you figure, with their regular bowels and active palettes.
Still, you can't seem to get it out of your head: What were they doing with that box? What was inside of it? Gold? Jewels? A nice, red ball?
That would've been fun to bounce, you muse.
Then, pain. Numbness down your left arm. You shake it, trying to regain feeling, only to find that the tingling cold is extending. It ebbs up into your chest, your neck. Vice-like now; the breath will not come.
No, you think, it can't be! Not like this! Not so soon!
You remember the box again, and you realize that the old saying was true: When your time comes, it's not the chances you did take that you end up regretting, but rather, all the sweet box-loot that you didn't.
You die boring, and that's bullshit.