The Delivery Man [Sci-Fi Short Story]

Old Zhou rode his tricycle through the alleys of Shanghai in 2047.

The city had long automated deliveries. Drones handled high-rises, ground robots handled communities, algorithms handled scheduling. Fast, cheap, precise. Old Zhou theoretically should not exist.

But he did.

The reason was simple: Mrs. Wang asked for him by name.

Mrs. Wang was eighty-three, hard of hearing, on her third phone screen. She still used voice ordering, always saying the same thing: Get me that Old Zhou, the one with the tricycle, make him deliver in person, I want to see it is him, not that robot, the robot scares me.

The system would pop up: This order requests human delivery. Plus 20 minutes. Extra charge 0.5 yuan. Confirm?

She always confirmed.

Old Zhou understood what his job really was. He was an emotional product. The city had a cohort of elderly residents who did not trust robots, who wanted to see a living person, who would wait longer and pay more. The platform kept a human delivery option for this demographic.

He did not mind the label.

Every day he covered about three kilometers, delivered six to eight orders, all by-name requests. Some clients he had served for fifteen years. Through their retirements. Through their children moving out. Through their spouses dying. To now, when they lived alone and sometimes ordered a small portion of braised pork.

He turned sixty last year. The platform asked if he wanted to stop. He said two more years.

Not for money. For the way those few households opened their doors - first peeking out halfway, confirming it was him, then the whole person relaxing, door opening wide: Oh, Old Zhou, come in, let me pour you some tea.

That relaxation was not confirmation of a completed delivery. It was the relaxation of recognizing someone familiar.

Author: BigD