The Parcel That Weighed Too Little

At two in the morning, the call centre was almost silent. Rafe sat at his desk on the fourth floor and listened to the hum of the lights. He had worked the night shift for three weeks, and he still had not learned to enjoy it.

His job was simple. When a customer called about a late parcel, he opened the tracking screen and read the script. Then he said how sorry he was. The script was four pages long. Rafe could say most of it with his eyes closed.

The phone buzzed, and a light flashed on his headset. "Thank you for calling the delivery desk," he said. "My name is Rafe. How can I help you?"

"Hello, Rafe." The voice was tired but polite. "My name is Gael. I sent a parcel yesterday, and it has stopped moving. Can you tell me why?"

Rafe typed in the number. The screen showed a small orange box with three words in it. WEIGHT MISMATCH. HOLD.

"I can see it," he said. "The label says four kilos, but the scanner at the hub measured less than one. The system holds a parcel when the numbers do not match. A person at the review desk has to check it."

"When does the review desk open?" asked Gael.

"At seven o'clock," said Rafe.

Gael was quiet for a moment. "That is too late. The morning van leaves at half past six."

"I am sorry for the delay," Rafe said, reading from the script. "I understand how frustrating this must be."

"It is not frustrating," said Gael. "It is a problem. My sister has a job interview at ten o'clock tomorrow. No, today. Her only good jacket is in that parcel. I live four hours away, so I cannot bring it myself."

Rafe stopped reading. He pictured a woman standing in front of a mirror, holding the wrong jacket. He knew exactly what that felt like. Last year he had gone to his own first interview in a borrowed shirt. It was two sizes too big.

"Gael," he said slowly, "I will make sure the parcel reaches her by nine o'clock. I promise."

He heard the words leave his mouth, and he wished he could catch them. The team lead at the next desk looked up. She was a tired woman with a green mug of cold coffee beside her keyboard. She shook her head very slowly.

"We never promise times," she whispered when the call ended. "It is the first rule on page one."

"I know," said Rafe. "But he sounded so worried."

"Worried people ring us every night. We are not a rescue service." She turned back to her screen. "Be careful. A promise you cannot keep is worse than no help at all."

Rafe stared at the orange box. He had no power to open it. Only the review desk could do that, and the review desk was empty until seven. He tried the hub's supervisor line. It rang eleven times and went silent.

At three o'clock he went to the vending machine and bought a bag of peanuts. He ate them without tasting. At four o'clock he rang the supervisor again, and again nobody answered. The promise sat in his chest like a stone.

At five o'clock he tried a different number. It was the gate phone at the hub, which the drivers used when they arrived early. After four rings, a slow, deep voice answered.

"Night guard. Who is this?"

"My name is Rafe, and I work for the delivery desk," he said. "There is a parcel in your building that is on hold because of the weight. The sender needs it urgently. Can you release it?"

"I cannot," the guard said. "I am not allowed to touch held parcels. Only the review desk can open them. Or the sender can collect them himself, with the tracking number."

Rafe's heart jumped. "Himself? Does it have to be the sender in person?"

"The sender or a person the sender names. He must say so on a recorded line. That is the rule."

Rafe looked at the clock. It was ten past five, and his shift ended at six. The hub was twenty minutes away by bicycle. Then he opened the delivery address on his screen. The parcel was going to a street only six kilometres from the call centre.

He called Gael back.

"I think I can keep my promise," Rafe said, "but I need your help. You must say on a recorded line that I may collect the parcel. And I need you to trust me."

Gael laughed in surprise. "You want to carry it yourself?"

"I finish work at six. I have a bicycle. Your sister's street is on my way home, more or less."

"More or less," Gael repeated. There was a long pause. "Do it. Tell me what to say."

At twenty past five, Rafe connected the two lines. Gael spoke clearly into the phone and gave the tracking number. He named Rafe as the person who could collect the parcel. The guard grunted, and the line clicked as the recording began. Rafe wrote down the guard's name on his hand.

The team lead was watching him now. She did not say anything. She only took a clean sheet of paper and wrote an address on it. "The nearest short cut," she said. "Use the path behind the factory. It saves ten minutes."

Rafe stared at her. Then he picked up his coat.

He pedalled hard through the empty streets. The city was grey and quiet, and a few early buses passed him with their lights still on. At the hub, the guard met him at the gate with a torch and a clipboard. He checked Rafe's staff card twice and let him sign.

The parcel was small and square, wrapped in brown paper. It was almost weightless. Rafe tucked it under his arm and rode on.

He reached the address at twenty to eight. It was a narrow house with a blue door. He rang the bell. A young woman opened it with her hair half done and one shoe on.

"You must be Rafe," she said. "My brother rang me at six. He told me a man from the call centre was bringing my jacket on a bicycle. I did not believe him."

"I did not believe it either," said Rafe, and handed over the parcel.

She tore it open on the doorstep. Inside lay a dark blue jacket, neatly folded, with a note pinned to the sleeve. She read the note and smiled. Then she looked at Rafe and said, "Thank you. It is good to know that somebody actually reads the phone calls."

Rafe cycled home with his legs shaking and a very light heart.

At nine o'clock he sat on his bed and called Gael one last time. This time he called as a friend, not as an agent. "She has her jacket," he told him. "I kept my promise."

"I know. She texted me a photo. She looks excellent." Gael hesitated. "Rafe, I have to tell you something. I think I know why the weight was wrong."

"Tell me."

"When I weighed the parcel, my cat was sitting on top of it. She weighs three and a half kilos."

Rafe laughed so hard that he fell back onto his pillow. "Next time," he said, "the cat pays for the postage."

"She has no money," said Gael.

"Then tell her I charge double for cats."