Hold On · Chapter One: The Order That Asked for Priority

At ten thirty at night, only one light still burned on the twenty-third floor of the office tower.

Lin Wanqing stared at the seventh draft on her screen. The client had just typed a line in the chat window: The direction is still wrong. I need the new version by nine tomorrow morning.

She typed back “okay,” set down her phone, and her fingertips trembled once, knocking over the pen holder.

Cold sweat slid down her back. She knew this feeling—waited too long to eat, blood sugar crashing, the world dimming around her as if someone were turning down the brightness one notch at a time. She pulled open the drawer. The box of glucose tablets had run out last week. On payday, her money had gone first to the hospital payment window; the deposit was topped up, but the tablets had never made it onto the list.

On WeChat, her father had sent one line: Wanqing, don’t stay up late. Papa is fine.

She replied with four words: Sleep as soon as I’m done. But “done,” for her, meant even the ten minutes to run downstairs for sugar belonged to the hospital bed.

She scrolled the delivery app to the bottom. Only one place was still open: Youfu Burgers & Snacks, 3.9 kilometers away. She ordered the cheapest double beef burger and a cola, and at the tip field she hesitated two seconds, then typed 5.

Note: Low blood sugar attack, hands shaking. 5 yuan tip for priority delivery. Thank you, driver.

Send. She pressed her forehead against the cold desk, like someone waiting for a rope to drop from above.

Three kilometers away, under an awning, Chen Dashan crouched on his electric scooter, sheltering from the rain.

The screen read 22:43. That afternoon, Station Chief Zhou had posted in the group: no new orders after ten; all vehicles return to the station to charge; anyone late loses safety points. He should have been heading back after this last delivery. The daycare locked up at eleven, and Tiantian was always the last child to be picked up.

Then, of all moments, the new-order chime rang.

Pickup at Youfu Burgers, drop-off at Hengxin Tower, 3.9 kilometers. In the note, one small line: Low blood sugar attack, hands shaking. 5 yuan tip for priority delivery.

Chen Dashan read the words “hands shaking” twice.

He knew that shake. Years ago, when he ran a noodle shop, during the busiest season he’d stand from ten in the morning to ten at night, until even the soup ladle wobbled in his grip—that exact kind of shake. Someone who has been hungry past the limit cannot wait.

His finger came down. Accept. Then he dialed the daycare: “Ms. Li, this is Tiantian’s father. Ten more minutes tonight, please. Sit with her over a math problem—don’t let her be scared.”

Rain hammered his helmet, sharp and loud. He swore under his breath and twisted the throttle all the way open.

The roll-down gate of Youfu Burgers was half lowered; Uncle Kang was bending over, packing foam boxes.

“Pickup, order ending 0036.”

Uncle Kang straightened and wiped his hands on his apron. “Fresh-made. The beef patties just went on the pan. Sit for two minutes.”

“I’m in a hurry.”

“Hurrying doesn’t make them cook faster.” His mouth was stubborn, but his hands flipped the patties twice as fast. “Other shops turn out a patty in three minutes. Mine takes eight. Meat is meat—no cutting corners, not a bit.”

Chen Dashan didn’t argue. He picked up the cola that came with the order—a little plastic bottle, off-brand. He’d bought one himself once, desperate with thirst, and it was nothing but sweetener, cloying enough to choke on.

He set the bottle down and walked toward the convenience store next door, still lit. “Uncle, I’m going to buy a pack of cigarettes.”

Inside, he didn’t buy cigarettes. He grabbed a one-liter bottle of the big-name cola. Scan: 6.5 yuan. As the payment screen popped up, he thought of the surgery bill in his drawer—still 48,000 short this month. He paused half a second, then pressed confirm.

Back at the shop, he set the little bottle on the counter. “This one can’t be given to anyone.”

Uncle Kang’s face flushed red. “It’s from a proper manufacturer! Clearance special—I didn’t water anything down!”

“Sweetener blend. You can taste it in one sip.” Chen Dashan swapped the big bottle into the bag. “Uncle, your meat here is good meat. What’s ruining you is money pinched like this.”

“Since when do I need lessons from you?”

Chen Dashan was already swinging a leg over the bike. Suddenly Uncle Kang shouted, “Wait!”

He came back, grabbed two pairs of chicken wings from the warming case, and stuffed them into the bag. “On the house. Tell that girl to eat them while they’re hot.”

Just before the gate crashed down and locked, Chen Dashan heard him mutter half a sentence: ”…Four years I’ve been open, and not one person ever said my meat was pure.”

When the rain was at its worst, Hengxin Tower came into view.

Lin Wanqing had run down the fire stairs, floor by floor—no time to wait for the elevator. Under the awning below, an electric scooter splashed around the corner, its headlight flickering.

The rider pulled off his helmet. Mid-thirties, rain streaming off his jaw, looking like he’d been fished out of a river.

“Lin Wanqing?”

“That’s me.”

He handed over the food bag, then lifted a one-liter bottle of cola from the footboard, still sweating the convenience store’s chill.

“I ordered the small cola.” She froze.

“That one’s no good. I swapped it for the big bottle.” He spoke fast. “No need to pay me back. There’s a note in the bag. Take a couple of sips before you go upstairs.”

“Thank you—let me send you a red packet—”

“No need.” He was already climbing back on the bike. “I saw your note. Next time it happens, keep two candies in your pocket. Don’t count on a delivery driver to save your life.”

The headlight cut into the curtain of rain, flickered, and vanished within a few steps.

Lin Wanqing stood under the awning, a bag of burgers warm against her chest, a bottle of cola cold in her arms. Upstairs, on a scrap of paper torn from the back of the receipt, she found a line of writing, the strokes so heavy they had punctured the paper:

Swapped your cola for the big one—6.5, my treat. For low blood sugar, something sweet helps you hold on. Heavy rain. Get home safe. — Rider Chen

She twisted off the cap and took a long swallow. The bubbles rushed up into her nose, and her eyes went hot without warning.

On WeChat, her father asked again: Home yet?

She replied: Still at the office. Papa, someone treated me to a cola today.

She thought about it afterward—she didn’t take the message back.

At a quarter past eleven, one light still burned at the daycare.

Chen Tiantian was slumped over the last table. When the door pushed open, she raised her head—and instead of rushing over, she packed her homework into her schoolbag first. Ms. Li had told her: the faster you pack, the sooner Papa gets to rest. She stood and ran two steps, caught herself on the edge of a desk, breathing hard. The doctor had said—no running.

“Papa, your head is dripping.”

“It’s rain.” Chen Dashan crouched to button her raincoat, his fingers white and waterlogged; it took him three tries.

Tiantian opened her palm: one piece of fruit candy, the wrapper’s edges worn to fuzz.

“From lunch. I’ve been saving it.” She peeled the wrapper, stood on tiptoe, and pushed the candy into her father’s mouth. “Ms. Li says you never eat properly. Low blood sugar.”

When the sweetness spread across his tongue, the man who had run through the rain all night without a single sound felt his throat seize hard.

“Sweet?”

“Sweet,” he said. “Come on. Home.”

On the scooter, Tiantian leaned against his back. “Papa, will it rain tomorrow too?”

“Don’t know. If it rains, it rains.” Chen Dashan said, “Hold on. The sky always clears eventually.”

The rain went on falling. On the other side of the city, beneath the lone light on the twenty-third floor, Lin Wanqing set the note with the punctured paper squarely beside her keyboard and finished the first marked line on the big cola.

One page left on the proposal. She sat up straight and suddenly felt that—maybe—she could hold on a little longer.