500 Words: "Delivery Instructions"

Fresh Flash Fiction from the Rabbit's Den

Delivery Instructions

Avery's phone pinged with another delivery request—Hillside Gardens. She frowned, the cloying smell of the chocolate Frosty suddenly turning her stomach. The app timer ticked down like a backlit bomb: thirty seconds to accept. She’d delivered to Hillside before—estimated tip ten dollars and forty-seven cents—enough to make it worth the drive, but just barely. She set down her shake, hit accept and pulled out on to the road. Every dollar counted. The teaching assistant stipend wasn’t enough to cover the rent on her own. Not now. And she still had three months on the lease left. Three more months of juggling bills. Three more months of driving nights for CurbsideEats. Three more months of her unfinished dissertation staring at her from the kitchen table. Thanks David, she whispered to herself. She made a mental note to cancel Netflix, then wondered if it was on her credit card or David's. She couldn't remember. Part of her hoped it was his. Let him pay for something, for once.

Three bags of Thai food balanced awkwardly in the insulated carrier as she navigated past the identical beige houses with their aggressively maintained lawns. Please knock loudly, doorbell broken. Thank you! —Mark & Elise. She'd been here before. The couple usually tipped well, especially the wife, who often answered in a wrinkled blouse, looking harried but grateful, the kind of gratitude that came from being rescued from some small domestic emergency.

That was four months ago, when Avery first started delivering, a temporary side hustle after life took an unexpected left turn. She'd learned to read the delivery notes carefully. They were practical at first—gate codes, landmarks, warnings about territorial dogs. But over time, she noticed how they revealed the texture of people's lives, like tiny windows into private worlds. Young mothers pleading for silence with exclamation points that read like desperation. College students directing her to dormitory side doors to avoid security. Elderly customers requesting patience with a politeness that broke her heart.

Two weeks later, same address, but the note had changed: Please text when arriving instead of knocking. Baby finally sleeping! —Mark & Elise. Avery remembered texting and the wife answering the door, a finger pressed against her lips while a baby monitor glowed on the entryway table. The exhaustion in her eyes felt familiar to Avery, who was finishing her dissertation on the weekends. Different kinds of sleeplessness, but sleeplessness all the same—that peculiar loneliness of being awake while the world slumbered.

A month later: Leave on porch, no need to knock. Thanks. —M&E. The porch light had been off that night, but Avery spotted the husband through the window, pacing with the baby while having what appeared to be a heated phone conversation. She recognized the body language—the tight shoulders, the clenched jaw—and turned away, suddenly conscious of witnessing something not meant for her.

Three weeks after that: Please make sure all items are in the bag this time. Previous order was missing dumplings. Ring bell and hand to person who answers. —Elise. It was the wife who had answered, her smile tight. Avery noticed a pillow and blanket on the living room couch behind her, the familiar geography of domestic discord.

In late February: Text only, no bell. Baby sleeping. Appetizers are Mark's (separate bag please). —E. Avery had complied with a careful separating of items, labeling one bag with a subtle "M." Nobody had answered that night. She left both bags by the door, side by side but not touching, like strangers sharing an elevator.

Early March brought: Please double-check order. Need exactly what was ordered, no substitutions. Leave at door, don't knock. —Elise. The house had been dark except for a single upstairs window, a lonely lighthouse on a suburban sea.

Then in April: Leave by garage door. Separate receipts—split payment (app should show this). —E. Avery had noticed moving boxes through the garage window, their cardboard mouths gaping open like silent screams.

Last week's order had come from a different address—an apartment complex across town: Building 3, Apt 3B. Call when you arrive, I'll come down. Just for one. —E. The instruction hung in Avery’s mind like a photograph cut in half.

Tonight, as Avery approached the apartment building, her phone pinged with an updated instruction: Actually, make that building 4. Just moved. Still figuring things out. —E.

Elise met her in the parking lot, the baby—now a toddler—balanced on her hip. They were both bundled against the spring chill, matching blue hats pulled low over their ears.

"You've delivered to us before, haven't you?" Elise asked, taking the single bag.

Avery nodded. "A few times."

"Well, it's just us now," Elise said with a practiced smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Easier to order for two instead of trying to cook."

As Avery turned to leave, Elise called after her. "Do you think they'll ever update the app? It still shows our old address as the default."

"You can delete the old address," Avery said. "Start fresh."

Elise shifted the baby higher on her hip. "I should probably do that."

Driving away, Avery checked her queued deliveries on the app. Three more tonight, all in the same downtown district. Her stomach tightened as she spotted a familiar name: Mark. She swiped to decline the order, then changed her mind. Everyone deserved dinner, even an Ex. The city lights blurred as she drove, each streetlamp a tiny sun illuminating its own universe. Whatever had happened between them wasn't her story to avoid.

An hour later, after delivering pad thai to a college student and a family-sized pizza to a group of nurses working late, she arrived at the sleek apartment building listed as her final stop for the night.

Mark recognized her immediately.

"You've delivered to us—to our old house before," he said, accepting the bag, his fingers lingering too long on the handles.

Avery nodded. "How are you doing?"

The question seemed to surprise him. He looked tired but clear-eyed, like someone who had just gotten off the red-eye. "One day at a time," he said. "You?"

"The same." She thought of her own apartment, half-empty since her ex moved out six months ago, dissertation notes still confined to one side of the kitchen table. "But I'm getting there."

"Hey," Mark called after her. "There's a good tip in the app. Elise always said I undertipped."

Avery smiled. "She was right."

At home, Avery bypassed her usual spot on the couch. She cleared the entire table—not just her half—and spread out her dissertation notes. For the first time in months, the empty chair across from her didn't feel like an accusation but like a space waiting to be filled with something new.

She opened her laptop and changed her CurbsideEats profile status to "unavailable." Not forever, just for tonight. Some deliveries could wait until morning. The night pressed against her windows, but for once, it felt less like isolation and more like possibility.