The fourth tiny grocery order in four days nearly made Caleb Turner cancel the delivery.

He sat behind the wheel of his aging Honda in a rain-darkened parking lot in Baltimore, staring at the shopping request glowing on his phone.

One carton of milk.

Nothing else.

The customer was Harold Bennett, Apartment 4C, the same customer who had ordered one box of tea on Monday, two apples on Tuesday, and a packet of crackers on Wednesday.

Caleb leaned back against the headrest and closed his eyes.

“You have got to be kidding me.”

At thirty-one, Caleb had learned to calculate life in minutes and dollars.

Rent was due in six days.

His car needed brake pads.

A credit card company had begun calling him twice a day.

His younger sister had sent him three unanswered messages asking whether he was coming to their mother’s birthday dinner.

He had not replied because he already knew the answer.

He would probably be working.

He was always working.

The grocery-delivery app had become his second job after the warehouse cut overtime.

Some nights he drove until eleven.

Some weekends he worked from breakfast until the dinner rush ended.

The app rewarded speed.

Fast shoppers received more offers.

Fast drivers received better ratings.

Delays could knock a driver down the priority list for days.

Harold Bennett’s orders were the opposite of efficient.

His apartment building had no elevator.

The front security door often jammed in wet weather.

The narrow staircase smelled faintly of boiled cabbage and radiator dust, and Harold lived on the fourth floor.

All of that effort for one carton of milk worth less than four dollars.

Caleb nearly declined the order.

Then he saw the payment.

The tip was six dollars.

He sighed and accepted.

Twenty-eight minutes later, Caleb pushed through the building entrance with rain dripping from his jacket and the milk tucked under one arm.

He climbed the first flight quickly.

By the second, his phone buzzed.

DELIVERY BEHIND SCHEDULE.

He ignored it.

By the fourth floor, he was breathing harder than he wanted to admit.

He knocked on Apartment 4C.

No answer.

He checked the time.

“Come on.”

He knocked again.

From inside came the slow sound of locks opening.

One click.

A pause.

Another click.

Then a sliding chain.

The door opened a few inches.

Harold Bennett peered through the gap.

He was around eighty, perhaps a little older, with a narrow face, silver hair combed carefully to one side, and deep lines around his mouth.

He wore the same brown cardigan Caleb had seen him wearing during every delivery.

“Oh,” Harold said.

“You made it.”

Caleb held out the milk.

“Yes, sir.”

Harold opened the door farther and reached with both hands.

Caleb would normally have left immediately.

That was the rhythm of the job: hand over, photograph, confirm, move.

But something inside the apartment caught his attention.

On a small table near the wall sat a brown paper grocery bag.

Caleb recognized it.

He had delivered it Monday.

The box of tea was still inside.

Beside it sat Tuesday’s plastic bag containing two apples.

Untouched.

And beside that were Wednesday’s crackers.

Still sealed.

Caleb frowned.

“Mr.

Bennett?”

Harold looked at him.

“Can I ask you something?”

Harold’s expression tightened slightly.

Caleb nodded toward the table.