N steps out of the elevator, and it’s stuffy. The halls of the apartment complex are cramped. The smell that sneaks through the fabric of her mask is familiar, too–weed particles and alcohol vomit stuff the fabric of the carpet. This isn’t the first college student to order ten McNuggets and a Diet Coke two hours after midnight.
She looks back into Doordash. 1417. Right. None of these buildings ever have the same numbering system, so she just goes around the H-shape, first to the left of the elevator, then to the right. There aren’t even directions, nothing like “1401-1420” with an arrow pointing to the left. Why is 1418 next to 1409? She sighs.
There better be a good tip, she thinks to herself, being a COVID-19 essential worker and all that. She knows there won’t be though, as she almost kicks over a paper bag of half-eaten Chinese takeout. College students don’t have money. She knows that intimately.
The numbers 1417 on a dusty, dirty panel breaks her out of her trance. Knock, knock.
“Shit,” she hears, whisper-shouted from inside the apartment. Something drops, clang, metallic on the ground, and there’s a shuffling, two feet thudding hurriedly, trying to find space on the crowded floor. She sighs again. This isn’t the first college student to forget they ordered ten McNuggets and a Diet Coke two hours after midnight. Fucking weed.
The door opens, and… N softens. That sharp, rank smell doesn’t wash over her like it usually does. Instead, in the frame stands a disheveled-looking girl whose mask doesn’t hide the streams running down her puffed-up tear troughs. A fresh red stain gashes the grey of her sweatpants. N smells it too, now. Metal. One of those snowflake thoughts comes up again in N’s mind. No, don’t think that, they won’t tip you more, idiot.
“...are you... alright?” No, why can’t you listen to me?
“I’m fine.” She isn’t, though.
“Well… uh... here’s your order.” N hands the girl the ten McNuggets and Diet Coke.
“Thank you.” Her voice cracks again, uneasy. Her hands shake as she takes the paper bag from N’s hands. She closes the door feebly, almost hesitating. But the constipated smack of the door against the frame, rusted hinges creaking and grinding, makes sure.
Thank God the windows don’t open, N thinks. She leaves for the next delivery.