Meals on Wheels

A nighttime delivery driver finds small moments of meaning between orders.

Raymond learned the city by heart, not by maps but by doorbells. Each chime had a personality, each hallway a smell. He did this work at night, when kitchens stayed bright and people forgot to cook for themselves. The app buzzed, the orders stacked, and Raymond slipped on his jacket like a second skin.

His car was old enough to vote and opinionated enough to complain. The heater worked when it wanted. The radio only liked one station. But the trunk fit insulated bags just fine, and that was what mattered. He talked to the dashboard like it was a coworker. “One more run,” he’d say, tapping the cracked screen. “Then we rest.”

On slow nights, Raymond thought about the photo taped to his visor: him and his mother at a county fair, her smile wide, his face smeared with powdered sugar. She had taken it on a disposable camera and laughed when the flash didn’t go off. “Memories don’t need proof,” she’d said. Still, Raymond kept the photo close, a small square of steadiness in a life measured by minutes.

One delivery took him to a walk-up with peeling paint and a light that flickered like it was nervous. A woman answered the door with tired eyes and a toddler on her hip. “You’re a lifesaver,” she said, and meant it. Raymond handed over the food and felt the quiet satisfaction that never showed up on pay summaries.

Back in the car, he checked the app. One more order. He smiled, adjusted the mirror, and started the engine. Somewhere between pickup and drop-off, between hunger and relief, Raymond found meaning, not grand, not permanent, but warm enough to carry him through the night.


Word Count: 284
Written for: "Daily Flash Fiction Challenge" 
Prompt: Write a story that includes the words: work, photo, car