Hello, Anybody Here?

The GPS-oriented map app said, "Your destination is on the left." It repeated it for good measure. (It wasn't repeating it neurotically; the app developers know people need and want assurance.) It was just past sundown. He consequently was breaking Rule 1a: Don't deliver food in the dark. "You don't drive well at night; it's too hard to find the locations. It's just not worth it," he neurotically had told himself over and over.

"Your destination is on the left."

He emerged from his car (actually, the bank's car), insulated food bag in hand.

The order was for $3.92. Our driver wanted to decline the offer. He typically rejects such a low amount, but he had already declined a few offers day. He didn't want to risk getting "a bad grade" owing to poor performance data.

He couldn't read the numbers on the houses on the winding suburban road. He was careful not to walk on the road, endangering his life for $3.92.

First, he went north searching in the just-fallen darkness for 3409 Sycamore Run. Oops. The numbers were declining.

Reverse direction.

Where could it be?

There's only one more house and it's on the corner, he mused. If it weren't the house on the corner, he'd have to cross a major roadway, and the map app is rarely that wrong.

He walked toward the corner house, stepping on grass already wet from dew. Regretting he did not grab the flashlight in his car, he had to stand a foot away to search what looked like numbers to the left of the front-door steps. As if he were employing a hybrid of braille and sight, he felt the texture of the peeling paint on the wood and drew closer: 3409. Shrouded by a pine tree and bushes, the tired house featured flaked and chipped white paint, creaking wood, missing siding, and worn steps on the porch.

He walked up a few steps and knocked on the door, which gave way, loose on its hinges.

A dog barked, in the manner of a sentinel not an attacker.

He heard a voice say, "You can open the door. Come on the porch. It's all right."

To his right, was a window, the bottom of which was six inches from the porch floor. On the other side of the open window, even with the porch floor, sat an emaciated but alert woman in her early twenties on a mattress with a comforter and a hungry kitten. Heavy-metal music emanated from her phone.

"You surprised me."

"Sorry."

"Here's your order." A half gallon of pink lemonade, mashed potatoes with gravy, and a chocolate chip cookie.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome." He hesitated. He wanted to ask if she was all right, if she needed more food, if it was safe there. He stood for an awkward 10 seconds, above her position on the mattress. "Good night. Take care."

The next day, around the same time, he accepted a delivery of the exact same items to the same "destination." This time, he did not need to fumble in the darkness to find the locale, this time on his right, because he approached from another direction.

He walked onto the porch, just like the evening before. The window was open a foot. The dog barked, a mixed of German shepherd, beagle, and retriever, he'd guess if quizzed. The cat was meowing and pacing.

"Hello, anybody here?"

No answer.

He repeated it, more loudly, and accompanied it with a forceful rapping on the window sash.

He waited a few minutes and then called the intended recipient via a feature of the food-delivery app. He was rewarded with no answer, not even a greeting on the food orderer's phone. He left a message: "Hello, I'm here with your food. I'm trying to deliver it."

Twenty minutes went by.

He thought of leaving the food there, placing it on the mattress through the open window.

He considered walking in through the window.

He considered calling 911.

What if she had overdosed just now? After all, someone had ordered food for this location, presumably hoping to eat and drink it. Would he remember his NARCAN training? (It wouldn't matter; he didn't have it in the car.) What if a crime were in progress? What if she had passed out from hunger?

"Hello, anybody here? Hello!?" he shouted loud enough to arouse neighborly suspicion.

Flummoxed and rattled, he began to walk off the porch, phone in hand, about to hit 911.

The dog stopped barking. He heard a door open. He halted and back-walked to the window.

Walking to the window was a stout woman, old enough and similar in appearance to Yesterday's Child as to be her mother: same oval face, brown eyes, and dirty-blond hair (streaked with gray). 

"You surprised me."

"Sorry."

"Here's your order."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome. Take care."

"You too, sir."