Emerald Express

04:40, undersized envelope

Courier Inez Vela stops beside the post box to check the carbon on the first slip. The address on her copy says the fish gate. It could equally say the fifth gate. There's time to reach either one on her first drive of the morning and she cannot reach both. She makes a call. While it's ringing, she looks into the back of the BMW 1990s wagon and thinks of two ways she would rearrange the parcels if she got to plan the route again. The receiver answers from an office overlooking the water. Fish gate. He needs to leave for a ferry, and he'll wait by the telephone box. She arrives before him and resents each minute long enough to get cold.

This is why she likes delivering to Imani's community kitchen. Imani usually opens the door before she pulls up and leaves just enough room for somebody to carry a box through without putting it down. She sometimes puts a heel of bread in Inez's coat pocket before Inez has thought to ask about breakfast.

08:20, car park by the slip

A delayed transfer once left Inez sharing a shift with Mara Osei from Iron Wagon. Mara had a square around the harbour slip and started putting the heavy crates forward, against the seats. Inez wanted the first delivery as close to the lid as she could get it. They argued in a deep, patient way, as if they were discussing a renovation that would never get past the planning stage. When Mara reached for a crate at the quay, a peach hit the ground. She blamed its ripeness. Inez had caught sight of the lid all the way from the gate and was still pleased she could recognize her parcel before touching anything. They get round to the peach again at Bea's Counter if they're both there long enough to put their cups down.

13:15, no deliveries

Inez's landlord keeps the shared trailer fob on a hook beside the hall cupboard. They booked a practice for the same afternoon once, by coincidence. They travelled separately because Inez had three dropoffs on the way. She forgot to tip her shoulder against the boot when she opened it at the paddock; every parcel was already gone. The wagon moved differently without its usual weight, and after years of driving the same harbour route she felt as if she had been given new brakes. She kept bracing too early and ran narrower lines than she wanted. Once she stopped trying to predict a future straight with damp cardboard on it, she could hold the turn long enough to look where she wanted to come out.

She went home afterward by a road she only uses on Sundays, so her landlord got there first. He left the fob sideways on its hook to show he was still up. They've been doing that since Inez's late aunt used to check when they came in.

14:50, Tuesday

Today she has put a square through the middle of the appointment book. At the bottom of it is a little drawing of her hand on the BMW's steering wheel. A long-time customer has already asked if it could be moved. Inez could fill six extra hours of a good week if she agreed to repeats, favors or urgent jobs that aren't urgent. She wants one hour at a closed course to find out how the wagon feels when there's still fuel in the tank at the end. There's a small parcel on her table from the man at the fish gate. She won't open it until she knows if he's paid for delivery.