Page 2

She turns without waiting.

I follow her down a corridor lined with framed photographs of graduating classes, athletic teams, debate champions, and children who appear to have been trained from infancy to smile without showing too much enthusiasm.

My left arm starts trembling under the boxes.

I ignore it.

Today began at six-thirty in the morning with three hours of temporary bookkeeping for a dental-supply company, followed by an online tutoring session with a fifteen-year-old who informed me with complete sincerity that mathematics will never matter because he intends to become a YouTuber.

After this delivery, I have two more scheduled.

At seven, I tutor another student in economics.

At nine, assuming I still have functioning eyes, I intend to apply for three financial analyst positions.

This is what having a master’s degree looks like when the universe has a sense of humor.

The woman pushes open double doors.

A long reception room stretches beyond them, decorated in cream and navy, with white tablecloths already laid across several tables.

“Put them there,” she says.

I carry the boxes to the nearest table and lower them carefully.

My shoulders nearly sing with relief.

The woman opens the first box. She examines the cheesecakes as though one might be carrying contraband.

“They’re supposed to have gold leaf,” she says.

“They do,” I say.

She leans closer.

I briefly imagine explaining the concept of reflective surfaces to her.

She opens another box.

Then another.

I stand there waiting, phone in hand, while she inspects desserts I have neither baked nor personally supervised during their formative years.

Finally, she gives me a short nod.

“They’re fine,” she says.

I smile. “Thank God,” I say.

Her eyes flick toward me again.

I hold out my phone. “I just need your signature.”

She signs with one finger.

The screen refreshes.

DELIVERY COMPLETE.