Chapter Text
“Delivery!”
Things would be considerably easier for Bryan Hodukavich if, whenever he arrived at an address, the people who had placed the order — and who had, more often than not, selected some form of urgent delivery — possessed the revolutionary courtesy of actually being home. Bryan wasn’t asking for much. He didn’t need anyone waiting solemnly at the front door with a red carpet and a round of applause; merely finding them somewhere in the general vicinity would solve half his problems. That afternoon, however, as the sun disappeared behind the trees and the sky settled into the kind of gray that promised a cold night and, knowing his luck, probably rain, it seemed the universe had decided to make even that basic task difficult.
He pressed the doorbell again.
Fourth try.
Bryan had a very clear policy regarding doorbells: five times. Five was enough. After that, he officially considered himself to have done everything a reasonable human being could be expected to do before giving up, returning to the car, and filing the delivery as recipient unavailable. It was a simple, efficient rule designed, above all, to keep him from turning every single delivery into a personal mission.
A rule Bryan almost never followed.
While he waited for some sign of life on the other side of the door, he looked around. This part of Stoneville had seen better days. Better decades, maybe. The houses, spaced apart by long lots and neglected yards, seemed to be aging faster than the people who lived in them. Several stood empty, crooked FOR SALE signs hanging from their fronts and weeds forcing their way through cracks in the sidewalks. In recent years, a good portion of Stoneville’s younger population had been leaving the outskirts in search of work in Raccoon City, the largest city in Arklay County.
It made sense.
When an absurdly large, obscenely wealthy, practically omnipresent pharmaceutical corporation like Umbrella built factories, research centers, sponsored hospitals, and God only knew what else in a region, it needed workers. Not necessarily well-paid workers, naturally. Giant corporations apparently had a supernatural talent for making billions while simultaneously explaining to employees why a fifty-cent raise was economically impossible.
As Grandpa Hodukavich liked to say:
“If there’s a very rich man somewhere, Bryan, you can bet there are a whole lot of poor people holding the ladder for him.”
Bryan had never known whether that was political wisdom, life experience, or just another thing the old man had made up after his third beer, but it had always sounded right.
Either way, it was those rich people — or, more accurately, their companies — that ended up dropping enough crumbs for broke people like Bryan to survive on.
He looked toward the horizon. Beyond the rooftops, beneath the fading light, the Arklay Mountains formed a dark blue line against the sky. Somewhere in that direction lay the forest, and beyond it, Raccoon City. Bryan knew the road there better than he knew some streets in Stoneville. Pizza, Chinese food, documents, medicine, sealed boxes nobody wanted to explain and that he was paid very well not to ask about — a good portion of his odd jobs eventually took him to the neighboring city.
Sometimes he wondered if life would be easier if he just moved there.
Then he remembered the rent.
“Delivery!” he called for the fifth time, pressing the bell again.
The shrill sound echoed somewhere inside the house.
Nothing.
Bryan let out a long, resigned sigh.
The box in his hands was roughly the size of a shoebox and bore the logo of the company he was working for on this particular side gig: Life Delivery Express, which specialized in transporting medical products and materials classified as sensitive. Most of the time, Bryan carried packages between clinics, pharmacies, laboratories, and hospitals, but there were residential deliveries too, usually for patients who couldn’t pick up their own medication.
He checked the label.
MIRABELLA, HELENA.
Bryan raised his eyebrows.
There.
Five attempts.
His obligation was officially over.
He could go back to the car, fill out the form, mark the recipient absent, and call it a night. He had no more deliveries. He had an important dinner to get to. He absolutely could not forget that; he had underlined it in his planner in several different colors, including highlighter.
He had already started to turn away when he stopped.
He looked at the box again.
“Yeah, but what if this is something Mrs... Mirabella...” He checked the receipt again. “...needs in order for her heart to keep beating?”
His brain, which often demonstrated an extremely inconvenient amount of creativity, immediately supplied an image.
An elderly woman collapsed on the floor of a dark living room, one hand pressed to her chest, trying to drag herself toward the telephone while the delivery guy responsible for bringing her medication whistled cheerfully on his way back to his car.
Bryan closed his eyes.
“No.”
The woman could simply be out.
She could have gone somewhere.
She could have forgotten the delivery.
She could be asleep.
She could be perfectly healthy and, at that exact moment, sitting in a Las Vegas casino feeding her retirement fund into a slot machine.
He took two steps toward the car.
Stopped again.
“Goddammit.”
Bryan turned back toward the house.
“You have to stick your nose into everything, don’t you?” he muttered to himself as he headed along the side of the property in search of an open window, a back door, or any other indication that Helena Mirabella still belonged to the land of the living. “No more deliveries tonight. You could just go home. Relax. Get ready for your date. Which is going to take some effort, considering you currently smell like old takeout and sweat. Not exactly an irresistible fragrance combination.”
The side of the house was blocked by a tall wooden fence. Near it sat a few cardboard boxes, several garbage bags, and an old tire.
Bryan studied the improvised structure.
“This looks safe.”
It did not.
He carefully placed the medicine box on top of a trash can lid, stepped onto one of the cardboard boxes, and grabbed the top of the fence.
“It’s not like you’ve already been working all day,” he continued as he hauled himself up. “For the record, that was sarcasm. We had those three giant pizzas from Luigi’s Holy Cannoli, which nobody had the decency to tip for...”
He managed to wedge one foot onto a narrow ledge.
“...then that insanely hot kung pao chicken from Golden Dragon that decided to open itself all over my back seat...”
The box beneath his foot collapsed with a crunch.
“Oh, shi—”
Bryan dropped.
He managed to catch the top of the fence for one glorious second, swung in a deeply undignified fashion, and ended up tumbling over the other side with a muffled thud.
“Shit!”
He lay there for a few seconds, staring up at the sky.
At least he had landed on a pile of old newspapers.
One crumpled page had come to rest directly in front of his face.
CANNIBALS IN RACCOON FOREST?
The headline was accompanied by a grotesque illustration of a man biting into another man’s arm.
Bryan picked up the paper and studied the front page.
“Hm.”
It was one of those dubious local tabloids famous for mixing municipal politics, psychic hotlines, and reports of creatures supposedly living in the mountains.
Still, he had to give them one thing.
“Good artwork.”
He tossed the paper back down, got to his feet, and brushed dirt from his coat.
“All right. I’ve already committed trespassing. Would be a waste not to finish the job.”
The narrow passage beside the house led into the backyard.
And that was where Bryan noticed the difference.
The front of the house looked as neglected as the rest of the neighborhood, but the backyard still showed clear signs of care. Pots stood in a neat row near the kitchen, herbs grew in wooden planters, and a few small flowers were stubbornly trying to survive the cold. It wasn’t a perfect garden — not even close — but someone was still making an effort to keep it alive.
Bryan relaxed a little.
That meant someone lived here.
Or at least had until recently.
Then he saw the swing.
An old wooden plank hung from a tree branch by a single rope. Near the wall were the remains of toys faded by years of rain: a small red ball, part of a plastic truck, the rusted rim of a child’s bicycle.
A place that, many years ago, had probably been full of children.
“What are you doing back here?”
Bryan froze.
He turned slowly.
An elderly woman was making her way through the back door with the help of a walker. She wore a polka-dot nightgown with a matching cap and had the suspicious expression of someone who had not received many well-intentioned visitors lately.
None of that, however, held Bryan’s attention quite as effectively as the revolver she had just picked up from the counter.
“If you’re here to steal something—”
“No! No, no, no!” Bryan immediately raised both hands. “Peaceful intentions. I come in peace.”
The woman narrowed her eyes.
“You come in peace? What are you, an alien?”
Bryan hesitated.
“No. Still human. And alive. For now, anyway.”
She made a sound that might have been a laugh.
“I’m a delivery driver,” he added quickly. “Life Delivery Express. I’ve got your package.”
Bryan held the box out in front of himself.
Like a shield.
“Package?”
The woman frowned for a few seconds, then her eyes lit up.
“Oh.”
“Helena Mirabella?”
“That’s me.”
Bryan exhaled.
“Great. I rang your doorbell about—”
“That damn thing is broken.”
She lowered the revolver.
Bryan’s legs, which had turned into two pillars of gelatin the moment the gun appeared, slowly resumed their role as functional parts of the human anatomy.
“Of course it is,” he muttered.
The woman set the revolver back on the counter, picked up a small asthma inhaler, and used it.
Bryan watched.
The package suddenly seemed a little more important.
“Well, I’m glad you came,” Helena said, her expression now considerably warmer. “Would you like some coffee? I just made a pot. I have cookies too.”
“I...”
Bryan should say no.
He absolutely should say no.
Hand over the package.
Get a signature.
Go back to the car.
Done.
But his gaze drifted through the open kitchen door. The inside of the house was simple, tidy, and unnaturally quiet. Framed photographs sat on a sideboard: children, teenagers, weddings, Christmases. An entire family frozen in happy moments.
Bryan looked back at the broken swing.
Maybe this house had once been loud.
Full.
Warm.
Now there was only an old woman, a carefully tended garden, and a broken doorbell.
He knew what the correct answer was.
“I’d love some.”
He smiled.
Helena Mirabella smiled back.
Bryan took the medicine box in one hand and, with the other, helped her maneuver the walker over the small rise in the doorway.
“You’re late.”
Those were the first words Michele said when she answered the phone.
Bryan closed his eyes.
He was back in the car now, parked in front of Helena Mirabella’s house. On the passenger seat sat a plastic box containing six cupcakes decorated with what was probably a criminal amount of frosting.
“Michele, I know.”
“Two hours, Bryan.”
“I was making a delivery, and Mrs. Mirabella—”
“Who?”
“The woman I brought the medication to. She has a lung problem. Although, honestly, she has plenty of breath when it comes to talking. She told me the entire story of how she came to the United States as a child and—”
“Bryan.”
He stopped.
“Focus.”
“Right.”
There were a few seconds of silence on the other end.
“Did you forget our six-month anniversary?”
“I didn’t forget.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Then why did I spend two hours alone at the restaurant?”
Bryan looked at the steering wheel.
“Because her toilet was broken.”
Silence.
“What?”
“Mrs. Mirabella asked me to take a look. She can’t bend down very well and—”
“You’re a delivery driver, Bryan! Not a plumber!”
“I know. Technically I’m several things, but plumber really hasn’t made the list yet. It could, though. I actually did a pretty good job. Turns out I’ve discovered another hidden talent.”
“That isn’t funny.”
“I wasn’t trying to—”
“Yes, you were.”
Bryan rubbed a hand over his face.
“Michele...”
“You always do this.”
“She lives alone. She has health problems. The toilet was leaking and she said she can only call her son on weekends. I wasn’t just going to—”
“And how long did that take?”
Bryan hesitated.
“The toilet?”
“Bryan.”
“With the coffee?”
“Bryan.”
“An hour and a half.”
A slow inhale came through the phone.
Dangerous.
“An hour and a half.”
“She made coffee too. I think I mentioned that. Very good coffee, actually.”
“You left me waiting on our anniversary so you could drink coffee with an old woman you had never met in your life.”
“Technically I was fixing—”
“Stop.”
Bryan fell silent.
“I’m your girlfriend,” Michele continued. The anger was still there, but beneath it was something tired. Something worse. “I’m supposed to matter to you too.”
“You do matter.”
“It doesn’t feel like it.”
“Michele...”
“There’s always someone.”
Bryan frowned.
“What do you mean?”
“There’s always someone who needs you. Your roommate who can’t pay rent. A client who needs a favor. Some stranger on the side of the road. Some random old lady with a broken toilet. And you just... go.”
“Her name is Mirabella,” he said quietly.
Silence.
Bryan realized his mistake exactly one second too late.
“Are you correcting me?”
“No, I just—”
“Oh my God, Bryan.”
“Michele, I didn’t mean—”
“I can’t believe you’re doing this to me again.”
He squeezed his eyes shut.
“I can come to the restaurant now.”
“The reservation is over.”
“We can go somewhere else.”
“This isn’t about the restaurant.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.”
Bryan stayed quiet.
This time there was no joke waiting in the wings to save him.
The silence stretched long enough for Bryan to notice small sounds the conversation had been hiding: the engine still idling, the faint hiss of the ventilation system, something metallic tapping rhythmically against a post whenever the wind picked up. Farther away, a dog barked twice and fell silent. The sky over Stoneville had gone almost completely dark, turning the neighborhood houses into uneven blocks of shadow, each lit window suddenly looking strangely isolated from the others.
Bryan shifted the phone against his ear.
“Michele?”
“I’m here.”
She no longer sounded angry.
That was worse.
Bryan knew that tone. It was the voice of someone who had moved past anger and arrived at a decision that had probably been taking shape for a while.
He lowered his eyes to his hands on the steering wheel. There was a smear of grease on his thumb, a souvenir from his deeply unprofessional attempt to fix Helena Mirabella’s toilet. The nail of his index finger had a thin line of dried blood on it, probably courtesy of his brilliantly planned fence-climbing adventure. Tiny bits of leaves and paper still clung to his coat.
He did not exactly look like a man who had missed a six-month anniversary because of an unavoidable emergency.
“You know I like you,” Michele said.
Bryan’s stomach tightened. Nothing good ever started with that sentence.
“That opening usually ends badly. Could you maybe start over? With a different sentence?”
“Bryan.”
“Sorry.”
Another brief pause.
“That’s exactly it.”
He frowned.
“What is?”
“You turn everything into a joke.”
The answer came too quickly.
“Not everything.”
“Almost everything.”
“That is a completely fabricated statistic. I just try to ease tension through verbal—”
“See?”
Bryan opened his mouth.
Closed it.
She had a point.
Unfortunately.
“When something gets uncomfortable,” Michele continued, “you make a joke. When you’re sad, you make a joke. When you’re worried, you make a joke. When you know you screwed up, you make a joke.”
“I apologize too.”
“After the joke.”
Bryan let his head fall back against the seat.
“Okay.”
“And I know you don’t mean any harm by it.”
That was even worse.
He preferred being accused.
Accusations could be argued with.
Understanding was much harder.
“You’re a good person,” she said.
Bryan sighed.
“That is another extremely alarming sentence opening. Once again, may I request a rephrasing?”
This time Michele didn’t react.
No laugh. No “idiot.” Nothing.
He sobered.
“Sorry.”
“It’s true. You are. A good person. Maybe too good sometimes.”
Bryan looked back toward Helena’s house.
For a few seconds, the old woman appeared in the living room window, a small silhouette moving slowly, probably putting away the cups they had used.
“I just don’t know if I can keep doing this,” Michele said.
“Doing what?”
“Competing.”
He sat straighter.
“You’re not competing with anyone.”
“Yes, I am.”
“With who?”
“Everyone.”
Bryan said nothing.
“That’s the problem.” Her voice stayed calm. “If someone calls you at three in the morning and says their car broke down, you get up. If your friend says he can’t cover his half of the rent, you pay it and tell him he can get you later. If an old woman you’ve never met asks you to fix her bathroom, you miss our dinner.”
“That sounds worse when you put it all together.”
“Because it is worse when you put it all together.”
He rubbed his forehead.
“Michele...”
“When do you choose yourself?”
The question caught him off guard.
Bryan didn’t answer.
“And when do you choose someone who’s with you?” she added. “Not because they need rescuing. Just because you want to be with them?”
He tried to find something. A clever answer. An ironic observation.
Nothing came.
His hands slowly tightened around the steering wheel.
“I wanted to be with you tonight.”
“But you weren’t.”
Just like that.
Bryan looked away.
A car crossed the intersection nearby, its headlights sweeping through the interior for a few seconds before disappearing.
“I can do better,” he said at last.
Her answer took a while.
“You always say that.”
“Because I mean it.”
“I know.”
There was too much sincerity in her voice.
Bryan knew what was coming before Michele said it.
Maybe that was why he didn’t try to interrupt.
“I think we should break up.”
The sentence hung in the car.
Bryan looked at the phone as though the screen might contain some indication that he had heard wrong.
“Oh.”
It was all he could manage.
“I’m sorry.”
He swallowed.
“No. It’s okay.”
It wasn’t.
“Bryan—”
“It’s really okay.”
Lie.
“I don’t want you to think that—”
“Michele, it’s okay.”
He smiled automatically. She obviously couldn’t see it.
Maybe that was an advantage.
“On the bright side,” he said, “six months is a nice round number. Half a year. Almost poetically appropriate.”
No answer. Bryan closed his eyes.
“Sorry.”
“See?”
“Yeah.”
This time Michele laughed. Softly. Sadly.
“You’re impossible.”
“I’ve heard that a few times.”
“I know.”
There was affection in the answer.
Maybe that hurt more than if she had simply hated him.
“Take care of yourself, Bryan.”
He drew in a deep breath.
“You too.”
The call ended.
Bryan kept the phone pressed to his ear for several seconds after the line went dead.
Then he lowered his hand. The car became very quiet. He stared at the dashboard. Then at the box of cupcakes. Then back at the dashboard.
“Well.”
He took a cupcake.
Slowly peeled away the wrapper.
Bit into it.
Chewed.
“Still divine.”
His voice came out slightly hoarse.
Bryan swallowed and sat there.
This time, he didn’t try to make another joke.
The rain started approximately seven minutes later.
Naturally.
At first it came as scattered drops against the windshield, so light Bryan didn’t even turn on the wipers. Then more. Then a thin curtain that stretched the streetlights into long smears across the glass.
He drove home with one hand on the steering wheel and the other resting near the window, following the streets of Stoneville almost on autopilot.
The radio played softly.
A local station was nearing the end of its evening news bulletin.
“...county authorities are once again advising caution for motorists traveling roads near Raccoon Forest after dark. Police have not confirmed any connection between the recent disappearances and reports of attacks on hikers...”
Bryan turned the volume up slightly.
“...representatives of the Umbrella Corporation stated that company facilities continue to operate normally and that there is no risk associated with Umbrella’s activities in the region...”
“Nobody asked about Umbrella, so why are they telling us that?” Bryan muttered.
The announcer continued.
“...residents have also reported sightings of unusually aggressive animals near state highways. The Raccoon City Police Department stated that—”
Static swallowed the broadcast.
Bryan smacked the radio twice.
“Don’t die on me now.”
Music returned a few seconds later. He lowered the volume again.
Probably reception trouble from the rain.
Nothing important.
Around the next bend, the distant silhouette of the Arklay Mountains appeared between the trees.
For an instant, lightning illuminated the dark line of the forest.
Bryan looked over.
The newspaper headline surfaced involuntarily in his memory.
CANNIBALS IN RACCOON FOREST?
He snorted.
“Sure.”
He turned onto the street where his apartment building stood.
The little building looked even more depressing in the rain: three stories of brick darkened by damp, the neon sign of the laundromat next door flickering irregularly, and two bicycles chained to a railing that nobody seemed to have touched in months.
Bryan parked. Turned off the engine. Sat there for a few seconds.
He didn’t want to go upstairs.
Because going upstairs meant seeing Eddie. And Eddie would ask how dinner had gone.
Bryan looked at the box of cupcakes.
“Technically, there was food.”
He grabbed the box, got out, and ran to the entrance with it tucked under his coat to protect it from the rain.
When he opened the door to the second-floor apartment, a familiar cloud of sweet-smelling smoke greeted him.
Bryan stopped on the threshold.
“Eddie.”
A head rose from behind the couch. Long, messy hair. Red eyes.
“Dude.”
“Open a window.”
“It’s raining.”
“Then choose a window that isn’t directly under the rain.”
Eddie considered this as though Bryan had just presented him with a complex philosophical problem.
“Fair.”
Bryan stepped inside and closed the door.
Their apartment was small, cramped, and filled with an unharmonious blend of possessions belonging to two men who had clearly never planned to live together this long. Books were stacked on the floor beside the couch, empty pizza boxes sat on a low table, one of Bryan’s jackets hung over a chair, and an inexplicably healthy plant occupied the windowsill — probably because Eddie, despite all his shortcomings, actually remembered to water it.
Bryan put the cupcakes on the table.
Eddie immediately stood up.
“Is that food?”
“Technically.”
“You’re a saint.”
“Don’t use that word around me today.”
Eddie stopped. Looked at Bryan. Then at the cupcakes. Then back at Bryan.
“Dinner went badly?”
Bryan peeled off his wet coat.
“There was no dinner.”
“Oh.”
Silence.
Eddie approached the box cautiously.
“Can I ask?”
“No.”
“Cool.”
He took a cupcake.
“She broke up with me.”
Eddie froze with the cupcake about two inches from his mouth.
“Can I ask now?”
Bryan sighed.
“No.”
“Cool.”
He bit into the cupcake.
Two seconds later:
“Dude, this is really good.”
Bryan pointed at him.
“Exactly.”
That finally pulled a laugh out of him. Small, but real.
Bryan crossed the living room toward his bedroom.
“You’ve got mail,” Eddie said.
“Bill?”
“Probably.”
“Burn it.”
“There’s one that’s different.”
Bryan stopped.
“Different how?”
Eddie pointed with the cupcake toward the table near the door.
Between two collection notices and a supermarket flyer sat a large cream-colored envelope with Bryan’s name printed formally in the center.
Bryan went still.
He recognized the sender immediately.
The university.
For several seconds, the rain, the breakup, Mrs. Mirabella, Umbrella, the bills, even Eddie chewing behind him — all of it disappeared.
Bryan walked slowly to the table.
Picked up the envelope.
His name was there.
Bryan Hodukavich.
His hands turned unexpectedly cold.
“It came this afternoon,” Eddie said. “I almost opened it.”
Bryan looked at him.
“You almost opened my mail?”
“I said almost.”
“That doesn’t help.”
“You gonna open it or just stare at it?”
Bryan ran his thumb along the edge of the envelope.
If this was what he thought it was...
Maybe, for the first time in a very long while, something was actually about to go right.
Bryan opened the envelope.
Or, at least, he mechanically performed all the actions that usually constituted opening mail: carefully tearing one end, slipping two fingers through the gap, pulling out the folded sheet, and unfolding it in front of his face.
Reading it, however, proved a little more complicated.
Despite loving books, spending much of his scarce free time writing, and having published a few short stories and essays in magazines small enough that his mother probably represented a statistically significant percentage of the readership, Bryan seemed, at that exact moment, to have completely forgotten how the English language worked.
The words were there.
He recognized the letters.
He understood, rationally, that they were arranged according to familiar grammatical rules.
And yet his brain refused to assign meaning to any of them.
“Well?” Eddie asked behind him.
Bryan didn’t answer.
He brought the letter closer to his face.
Maybe that would help.
It did not.
His eyes ran over the first few lines again until one word finally broke through the mental static.
Congratulations.
Bryan blinked.
Congratulations was a good word.
It was usually associated with cake, presents, diplomas, awards, or, in certain especially alarming circumstances, children nobody had planned to have.
His eyes moved down.
Another word.
Accepted.
Also good.
In Bryan’s personal lexical field, accepted tended to evoke marriage proposals first, although his recent romantic history suggested that association might require updating.
He kept reading.
Then he found the entire sentence.
It is our great pleasure to welcome you to Arklay State University...
Bryan stopped breathing.
He read it again.
Then a third time.
And finally:
“YEAH!”
The shout made Eddie jump.
His friend had absolutely no idea what was happening, but that had never prevented him from participating in a celebration. Eddie immediately threw both arms into the air.
“YEAH!”
“I GOT IN!”
“YOU GOT IN!”
Bryan turned and hugged him hard enough that they nearly toppled onto the couch. In the momentum, he came dangerously close to kissing him, but pulled back just in time. Eddie had been his friend since high school. Bryan loved him deeply.
Just not like that.
“Wait.” Eddie leaned back enough to look at him. “What did you get? Did you win the lottery?”
“Almost.”
Bryan looked at the letter again.
His hand was shaking.
“No. Better. I mean... financially, definitely worse than the lottery. But I got it, Eddie.” He ran both hands through his curls, still unable to believe it. “I got in. I got the scholarship for Literature.”
Eddie broke into a huge grin.
“Dude!”
He slapped Bryan twice on the back.
“That was obvious. You write like a fucking beast.”
“I suspect that was not the exact wording used by the admissions committee.”
“It should’ve been.”
Bryan laughed.
He looked at the letter again.
His name was there.
It wasn’t imaginary.
It wasn’t one of the daydreams he entertained while driving from one delivery to another — the ones where he published a novel, became famous, and finally got to answer “writer” when someone asked what he did for a living instead of spending five minutes listing an embarrassing succession of temporary jobs.
This was actually happening.
A university had read his work.
Someone — probably several someones — had decided he was worth investing in.
Him.
Bryan Hodukavich.
Pizza delivery driver, occasional mover, medical courier, unofficial handyman for elderly ladies, and owner of a bank account that frequently looked terminally ill.
“We have to celebrate,” Eddie declared. “Let’s order food.”
Bryan immediately raised one finger.
“No pizza.”
“Why?”
“I have spent too much time in the vicinity of pizza today. I don’t even want to look at one.”
“Chinese?”
“Possible.”
Eddie was already reaching for the phone when Bryan looked back at the letter.
The happiness remained.
But something started creeping in around its edges.
A worry.
Small at first.
Then larger.
“Eddie...”
“Hmm?”
“If I really go...”
His friend looked up.
“When I start classes,” Bryan corrected himself, forcing himself not to treat the opportunity like something temporary that might disappear, “I may have to change some things.”
“Like what?”
“Work. Schedules. Maybe even... living here.”
Eddie went quiet.
Bryan tightened his grip on the letter.
“I don’t know how it’s going to work. Depending on my classes, it might make more sense to live closer to campus and...”
He didn’t finish.
He didn’t have to.
Eddie stared at him for a few seconds.
Then smiled.
“Bryan, you don’t have to worry about me.”
“I’m not worried.”
Eddie tilted his head.
Bryan sighed.
“Fine. I’m extremely worried.”
“Man, you’ve already done a lot for me. Seriously. I’ll manage.”
Bryan looked meaningfully at the couch.
“Manage by rolling over?”
He pointed.
“On the couch?”
Eddie laughed.
Bryan did too, though the worry remained.
Eddie contributed little to the rent — frequently nothing — but that did not mean he was simply freeloading. When he had money, he helped. When he didn’t, he took care of the apartment, bought groceries, attempted to cook, and reminded Bryan of basic things like eating and sleeping whenever his work schedule became especially chaotic.
The problem was that Eddie had an extremely flexible relationship with concepts such as steady employment and financial planning.
Bryan was about to say something when his phone vibrated.
His heart gave an unpleasant little jump.
For one second, he thought it might be Michele.
He looked at the screen.
It wasn’t.
DOROTHY GRAY.
His boss.
One of his bosses, technically.
In this particular case, the one from Life Delivery Express.
Bryan froze.
“Uh-oh,” Eddie said.
“Don’t start.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your ‘uh-oh’ did.”
Bryan answered.
“Hi, Mrs. Gray.”
And immediately added:
“Before anything else, I delivered the package. I know I probably stayed at the address longer than I was supposed to, but—”
“I know.”
Dorothy’s nasal voice came through the phone.
Bryan stopped.
“You know?”
“Mrs. Mirabella already confirmed receipt. She also left an excellent review for you, Mr. Hodukavich. There’s no need to get so defensive.”
“I am not defensive.”
Eddie gave him a look of absolute disbelief.
Bryan turned his back on him.
“The important thing,” Dorothy continued, “is that the package was delivered. I don’t particularly care how you managed it.”
Bryan frowned.
“When you say it like that, it sounds like I transport illegal things.”
There was a pause.
“They’re legal, Mr. Hodukavich.”
Bryan went still.
“That wasn’t exactly a question.”
Dorothy laughed.
Bryan wasn’t sure whether that reassured him.
Through Life Delivery Express, he had transported almost everything imaginable: medication, medical equipment, laboratory documents, sealed thermal bags, small containers that came with very specific temperature instructions, and boxes whose explicit policy appeared to be don’t ask.
Living in the region, with Raccoon City so deeply tied to Umbrella, trips between hospitals, clinics, laboratories, and research centers were a normal part of the job.
Even so, some deliveries took place at strange hours.
For strange people.
In even stranger places.
And sometimes it was simply better to take the money and not imagine what might be inside the box.
“Actually,” Dorothy continued, “I’m calling because we need to know whether you’d be available for one more delivery tonight.”
Bryan looked at the clock.
“Mrs. Gray, it’s almost nine.”
“I know.”
“I’ve been working all day.”
“I know.”
“My love life ended approximately half an hour ago.”
Silence.
“That I did not know.”
“Well, now you do.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.”
“So you’re free.”
Bryan closed his eyes.
Eddie started laughing silently.
Bryan gave him the finger.
“Mrs. Gray...”
“It’ll be quick. Raccoon City. Special client.”
He sighed.
Raccoon City.
Of course.
“Who?”
He heard papers shuffling on the other end.
“One moment... Dr. William Birkin.”
Bryan waited.
The name meant absolutely nothing to him.
“Never heard of him.”
“You don’t need to have heard of him. You only need to make the delivery.”
“Mrs. Gray, I really don’t know if—”
“He’s paying extra.”
Bryan stopped.
Dorothy knew her employees.
“How much?”
She told him.
Bryan did the math quickly in his head.
Then did it again, because the first result looked too good.
Rent.
The electric bill.
Car insurance.
Gas.
That small debt that was no longer very small after interest.
And now, even with the scholarship, there would be college.
Books.
Supplies.
Maybe moving expenses.
The letter in his hand had not magically solved his problems.
It had simply given them a different direction.
Bryan looked down at the page.
Then at Eddie.
His friend already recognized that expression.
“No,” Eddie muttered.
Bryan turned away.
“All right,” he said into the phone. “I’ll do it.”
Eddie let his head fall back dramatically.
Dorothy seemed to brighten on the other end of the line.
“Perfect! Have I ever told you you’re one of my best delivery drivers?”
“You always say that right before sending me somewhere awful at an awful hour.”
“Coincidence.”
“I’m sure.”
She gave him the pickup instructions.
Bryan wrote them down.
“And, Mr. Hodukavich...”
“Yes?”
“Direct delivery. Only to Dr. Birkin or a previously authorized individual. Do not open the container.”
Bryan raised an eyebrow.
“I never open them.”
“Good.”
The call ended.
Bryan lowered the phone.
Eddie was waiting.
“You said yes.”
“I said yes.”
“Bryan, my brother, you just found out you’re going to college. Your girlfriend broke up with you. You’ve been working all day. Maybe the universe is trying to tell you to stay home, smoke something, and contemplate existence.”
“I’ll skip the smoking part.”
“We can contemplate sober too. I’ve never tried it, but I assume it’s possible.”
Bryan was already looking for his coat.
“We’ll celebrate tomorrow.”
“Is that what you told Michele about dinner?”
Bryan stopped.
Eddie immediately raised both hands.
“Okay. Low blow. I take it back.”
Bryan breathed out through his nose.
He grabbed his bag.
“Tomorrow. I swear.”
“Food?”
“Food.”
“Drinks?”
“Depending on what they pay me tonight, maybe actual alcohol.”
Eddie smiled.
“Now we’re talking.”
Bryan headed for the door.
“And somebody has to pay for this celebration.”
“Money isn’t everything, man.”
Bryan turned slowly.
“Are you really saying that to the person who pays most of your rent?”
“Exactly. I have a privileged perspective on the insignificance of money.”
Bryan laughed despite himself.
Eddie followed him to the door.
“Maybe that’s why you can’t keep a boyfriend or girlfriend.”
“I would really prefer not to receive romantic advice from you.”
“Why? I almost got married.”
“Five times.”
“To the same woman!”
Eddie said it as though that were the ultimate proof of emotional stability.
Bryan had to admit that, from a certain angle, maybe it was.
Lillian — the tattooed goth barista apparently blessed with near-supernatural patience — had a relationship with Eddie whose definition changed weekly between girlfriend, fiancée, ex-fiancée, and “we’re talking.”
For some reason, however, she always preferred dropping Eddie off at Bryan’s apartment instead of taking him back to hers.
Maybe she was smarter than Bryan gave her credit for.
“Maybe you’ll keep the next one,” Eddie continued. “College is gonna be full of nerds like you.”
“Thank you.”
“Writers, glasses, books, all that stuff.”
“I don’t wear glasses.”
“Yet.”
Bryan opened the door.
“Maybe you’ll meet a nice guy.”
“And why not a nice girl?”
Eddie shrugged.
“You last longer with guys.”
Bryan arched an eyebrow.
“Your scientific methodology appears impeccable.”
“Your last boyfriend had a shelf life of a year and a half.”
“When you talk about shelf life, you make my relationships sound like groceries. We’re not yogurt.”
“You know what I mean.”
Bryan shook his head.
It was difficult to argue with Eddie because, occasionally and by pure statistical accident, he said something sensible.
“Take care of the place.”
“Always.”
Bryan pointed at the pile of clothes.
“And you could wash those.”
Eddie snapped into a military stance and saluted.
“Consider it done, future Stephen King.”
Bryan laughed.
“I write essays and short pieces, Eddie.”
“Future Stephen King of essays and short pieces.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“Yet.”
Bryan closed the door before the conversation could get any worse.
In the hallway, his smile lingered for a few seconds.
It was impossible to stay genuinely angry at that idiot.
Eddie might contribute little financially, but he kept the apartment functioning during the weeks when Bryan practically only came home to sleep. He was a friend.
Family, in a way.
Bryan went down the stairs.
On the ground floor, he slowed.
The landlord’s apartment was near the entrance.
The light was on.
Bryan immediately began moving with the stealth of someone who possessed absolutely no qualifications for stealth.
He pressed himself against the wall.
Waited.
He heard a television.
No movement.
He advanced.
“Excellent,” he whispered.
He crossed the lobby almost on tiptoe, opened the building door, and ran through the rain toward his car.
Only after he got inside and shut the door did he allow himself to breathe normally.
He carefully placed the university letter inside his bag, protected from the water.
Then he started the engine.
Raccoon City.
One delivery.
A good bonus.
A few hours of work.
He would be back that same night.
He would sleep.
Tomorrow, he would figure out the rest of his life.
It sounded simple.
Rain streamed down the windshield as Bryan left Stoneville behind. The wipers worked at a steady rhythm, pushing the water aside only for it to reclaim the glass seconds later. Ahead, the road began its gentle climb toward the Arklay Mountains, and green highway signs reflected his headlights, naming destinations he knew far too well after months of crossing these routes.
RACCOON CITY — 32 MI.
Bryan passed the sign without paying much attention.
He had driven this road dozens of times.
Maybe hundreds.
In daylight, in the middle of the night, through snow, rain, and heat. With pizzas cooling on the back seat, cartons of Chinese food perfuming the entire car, urgent documents tucked into the glove compartment, and sealed medical containers he had learned long ago not to inspect out of curiosity.
Tonight would be no different.
That was what he told himself.
He turned on the radio. A familiar song emerged through the static, and Bryan quietly sang along with the chorus, still thinking about the university, Michele, Eddie, and the money he would get once he delivered the package to the mysterious Dr. William Birkin.
Somewhere far off between the trees, a siren echoed.
Bryan turned the music up.
He didn’t notice.
And kept driving toward Raccoon City.