Page 35 of The Delivery

A few moments later, Derek’s words come audible, the phone argument rising in pitch like the whine of an approaching car engine: “. . . root causes,” he is saying, “we need to identify root causes. I want immediate, actionable steps based on the forecasting . . .”

His shadow flickers by Mark’s office, his footsteps fading. Finally Mark hears the ding of the elevator arriving.

After a few seconds, Mark emerges like prey from a burrow, head craning, blinking into the fluorescents.

Down the same hall, following Derek’s footsteps on a delay, his mouth dry.

Bao-Bao has been skinned and Jackson has fallen off a ladder and Rebecca said something about a footprint. Mark couldn’t clarify the details, but it all sounded ominous as hell. It has been mounting, whatever this is. Lately, when he sees Rebecca’s name on his caller ID, dread stirs his gut as it had in those endless days after the miscarriage when he’d felt his cortisol spike every time the phone rang.

He rides the elevator down in silence, nervously knocking his briefcase against the side of his thigh. When the doors peel open, he spots Derek’s Porsche whipping past and he flattens himself against the elevator buttons to hide from view.

His face burns. The family pet has been killed and his wife is terrified and here he is, hiding from his boss in an elevator.

The 911 gives a throaty roar as it banks up the ramp. From Derek’s braggadocio, Mark knows that the engine is 518 horsepower, the model a GT3 RS.

It whips out of view, and Mark scurries from the elevator to his car.

Chapter 28

The titanium business card is out on the tiny kitchen desk. Mark is pounding away at his laptop, and Rebecca is pacing tight circles, working the phone. They have a website, an email, and a 1-800 number for N0RM LLC. But they cannot reach a live person.

The customer service is run by AI chatbots, infuriating in their lack of emotional responsiveness. Mark should know; this is precisely what he spends his days at the office doing, replacing human beings with artificial intelligence. And now he is reaping the whirlwind.

I’m sorry we cannot respond right now , the interface coolly informs him. We can schedule a time for you to talk to your Experience Facilitator during business hours .

He and Rebecca have been at this for hours, discussing, plotting, processing, venting, attempting contact.

“This can’t wait until tomorrow!” Rebecca hisses into the phone, her conversation mirroring his typed interface. A vein is lifted at her temple, a snarl of hair pasted across her forehead. She curses, taps the phone onto speaker, pushes buttons at intervals, navigating the interface.

“For sales, press 1.”

“For billing, press 2.”

“For an Experience Facilitator, press 3.”

Rebecca finger-slaps the iPhone. “I already did this!”

“They’re closed, Beccs.”

“I thought the founder was South African or whatever. Isn’t it daytime in Africa?”

“ We’re sorry, but our Facilitation Center is not open. Please try back during business hours.”

“But the business is based here,” Mark tells her. “It’s a 1-800 number.”

“ For sales, press 1. ”

“Fuck you,” Rebecca tells the phone. “Fuck. You.”

She hangs up.

Their website is slow loading so Mark hits refresh on the pop-up window.

. . .

Would you like to schedule a time to talk to your Experience Facilitator this week?

Angrily he types: Tomorrow.