Dan has put a box on the table in their apartment, where Jack usually sits to write. It's a decent-sized box, filled with other boxes and some shredded colored paper to act as filler. The note card at the top reads as follows:
Dad,
Before you get started, Azzie has laid claim to the shredded paper so don't throw it out or he'll be pissed.
I can't quite make up for every birthday I've missed with you, but there is more than one thing in this box. Not enough for a gift a year, though. Unless you want to count every coffee bean as a separate gift, which would be odd, and would possibly mean that you're older than Thor.
I couldn't find the Violent Violet Volkswagen, so I found something else that seemed just as somber and refined. And I know you're jealous of my train so now you have one of your own.
Have a good birthday,
Love, Dan
There are about six or seven different bags of good coffee in the box as well, along with a couple boxes of chocolate-covered coffee beans, a decent-sized stash of candy bars and a selection of weird Norwegian food that was picked up on their vacation.
There's also some boring practical things, like spare bits for the typewriter and the little cue cards Jack uses a lot of when he's writing, and some more ink for the pen he got at Christmas.