The dispatch slip is short: hand the package to yourself, ten minutes ago, do not open it. Under Mara's dash, the retrochron unit hums like a trapped wasp. The meter counts backward. Rain runs UP the windshield into the sky. On the seat beside her sits a brown paper package, taped shut, no label. The clock hits her drop time. Headlights swing into the lot behind her.

Mara doesn't move. She stares at the package and the rule on the slip: do not open it. Whoever wrote this knew she'd want to peek. Her thumb finds the tape. 'Just a corner,' she tells herself. 'Just to see.' The retrochron's hum jumps higher, angry now, like it knows.

The paper tears and there's nothing inside. Empty. The package was always empty. Mara laughs, half relief, half terror. Then she gets it: the package was never the point. SHE was the delivery. The retrochron clicks off, and the doors of her car lock by themselves.