Her shoes felt tight after weeks of not wearing shoes, and the brownstone steps were so steep she had to brace herself and take them one at a time, but she made it all the way to the sidewalk. A cute orange truck pulled up in front of the neighbor’s house. FULL PLATE, it said on the side of the truck. DELICIOUS DINNERS DROPPED AT YOUR DOORSTEP.

The neighbors were never home. Mandy and Stuart had decided they were Russian spies, trying to blend in. The reason they were never home was because they didn’t really live there—it was just a front. Mandy had seen them only a few times, hurrying into a black car with suitcases. They’d probably forgotten they’d even ordered from Full Plate.

The delivery guy placed the box at the top of the neighbor’s stoop.

“Have a good one,” he said to Mandy as he trotted down the steps to his truck.

The box would probably just sit there for days, unopened, and the luncheonette was on Smith Street, which was pretty fucking far away.

“Excuse me,” Mandy called out to the delivery guy. “Um, the couple you just delivered the box to? They’re away, and they asked me to take their box. Would it be possible to carry it up to my front door for me?”

“Oh. Oh sure,” the delivery guy said with a sympathetic smile. Mandy could tell what he was thinking: there was no fucking way a chubby, out-of-shape lady like her could carry a heavy box like that all the way up to her kitchen. “Just tell me where.”

She smiled pleasantly with her hands on her hips and gazed down the street, looking out for watching neighbors and judgers. A police car had pulled over at the corner and a few people were standing around talking to the police. Something must have happened. At least they weren’t watching her steal her neighbors’ dinner. Man, was she famished. And pretty high from the weed cookie. The Full Plate box was hopefully full of something delicious.

The delivery guy carried the box right to the kitchen. Mandy fished a ten-dollar bill out of her purse and gave it to him. “You’re a lifesaver,” she said.