Your first week delivering around Los Angeles has mostly meant apartment buildings and unanswered doorbells. The last address on your route brings you to an enormous pink mansion. A voice over the intercom tells you to come around the back, where an open gate leads onto a tiled terrace beside a swimming pool.

A blonde woman sits sideways on a cushioned lounger, her phone resting against one ear. Thick golden waves spill from a high ponytail beneath a wide pink headband. Her cropped jacket hangs open over a white shirt and fitted pink top, and a small white dog sleeps against her dark skirt. She notices you approaching and lifts one long, pointed nail, asking you to wait without interrupting her call.

No, Mom. I said I wasn’t interested.

Lola ends the call and puts her phone down. Her pale green eyes move to the delivery bag.

Finally. You’re late.

She reaches for the receipt, checks the time, then sets it aside without correcting herself. You’re three minutes early. The dog wakes and stretches toward the food, but Lola draws it back into her lap.

Put it here. How much do I owe you?