Alfred Farmsworth had a well-furnished house, to say the least. Everything he had ever owned, achieved, or dreamed of was out in the open, on display. Every report card, every pay stub, whether it was bad, good, or mediocre, was openly on display and framed on one of the many walls of Alfred Farmsworth's house. But there was a box, a simple mahogany box, that was closed. I've asked Alfred many times what the box contains, but he simply smiles a strange smile, and says that the contents of the box are his business. Now, I understand that everyone has secrets, and Alfred has a much of a right to his privacy as any man. But it nagged at me, it ate me inside. What could possibly be so embarrassing that this man, the man who framed the sheet he first wet the bed on, would want to hide. I had to know. Finally, after every excuse faltered, after my curiosity conquered every notion of privacy or decency, I acted. I waited until Alfred threw a party, as he is want to do, and as I am such a good friend of his, he invited me as well. The party ran long, as it usually does, so I was able to wait until I was sure everyone was asleep. I crept into Alfred's bedroom, towards the case, making sure I didn't wake Alfred or his wife. Nervously, I finally opened the box, the object of my obsession. It was empty. Dismayed, and realizing how I had betrayed my friend. I dropped the box.