Rubber Duck Escalation Pack

You're going to mail your friend a rubber duck a day for a month. One duck per package. No note, ever. Each duck slightly harder to explain than the one before it. This is everything the month needs, packed in dispatch order, with margin for the ones the post office loses.

• The ducks. Standard yellow, identical, more of them than there are days in the month — postal attrition is real, and you do not pause the month for it.
• The wardrobe. Knitted hats in duck scale, no two alike, each less explicable than the last. A duck is a duck. A duck in a tiny sou'wester is a question.
• The luggage. Miniature suitcases, hinged and latched, packed or empty at your discretion. People check. Let them wonder what a duck packed for.
• The paper goods. A flyer template reading HAVE YOU SEEN HIM? above a blank space for a photograph, tear-off tabs pre-scored along the bottom. Print more than one. Nobody takes a tab, and the weather ruins the flyer anyway. That's part of it.

They'll line the ducks up somewhere visible and count them. Sooner or later the count disagrees with itself. That's within tolerance. A month is a long time to think about one person; you'll think about them every day, in line at the post office. Keep the pack somewhere they'll never find it — which means not in your house, if they visit.