SnailRabbit

The fog crept in on little cat feet, swirling through the pre-dawn gloom and around Joan’s tiny apartment. It muffled the sounds of the sleeping city, bringing an eerie silence. Joan tossed fitfully, unable to escape the chill seeping through ancient windows. Shadows danced and swayed as if alive, playing tricks on her weary eyes.
 
She lay there, listening to the radiator’s soft rattles, the languid drip from the bathroom sink. Wakefulness eluded her. The clock ticked on relentlessly. 5:17 AM. Too early still for the trials of the day.

A soft meow broke the stillness. Joan peered down to see two yellow eyes glowing in the darkness.

“Tubs, is that you?” she whispered. The old grey cat leapt nimbly onto the bed, purring loudly. He bumped his head against Joan’s hand in greeting. She stroked his patchy fur, taking comfort in his warm, vibrating body.

“Couldn’t sleep either, eh Tubs?” Tubs mewed in response. “Well, I suppose two insomniacs are better than one.” Joan scratched under his chin, his favorite spot. “At least you won’t pass judgment, even if I am talking to a cat at 5am.”

Tubs stared back at her, unblinking. His steady gaze reflected the lamplight.

“What do you say, want to keep me company while I have some tea?” She patted the bed. Tubs circled a few times before plopping down, paws tucked under his belly. His rhythmic purring soothed Joan’s restless mind. She rose slowly, Tubs tracking her every move with wise eyes.

Joan rose, joints creaking in protest, to gaze out at the empty street below. Amber lamps illuminated the glistening asphalt. A stray page from yesterday’s news scraped along the sidewalk. No souls stirred in this lifeless hour.
 
The kettle whistled plaintively, steam swirling up to greet the pale light now creeping across the horizon. Dawn emerged tentatively, slowly banishing the unsettled night.

Joan finished her tea, drawing comfort from its warmth. She rose slowly, and brought the cup to the sink. Tubs lifted his head, watching her movements closely anticipating what was to come.

Joan opened a cupboard and grabbed a tin of cat food. “Breakfast time, Tubs,” she said softly, spooning the food into his bowl. Tubs hopped down from the counter, purring in anticipation. He wound his way affectionately around Joan’s ankles as she placed the food on the floor.

Crouching down, Joan stroked Tubs’ patchy fur as he ate. “Now you be good while I’m gone, alright?” Tubs glanced up at her, eyes bright. He mewed softly before returning to his meal.

Joan gave his back one last gentle pat, then stood up with effort. She gathered her things methodically, readying herself to face the trials of the day. As she headed for the door, she turned to look at wise old Tubs. “Wish me luck,” she said. Tubs blinked back at her, his presence a comforting balm for her dread.

Joan steeled herself and left the safety of home. The faint scent of wet leaves on damp pavement hung in the air, earthy and foreboding. She made her way downstairs to brave the city’s streets once more.

Chapter 1
 
Joan stood at the iron gates of her apartment building, squinting into the morning gloom. Wisps of fog drifted by, casting sickly amber hues on the dampened streets. The faint scent of wet leaves on damp pavement hung in the air, earthy and slightly foreboding.

Joan inhaled the earthy petrichor as she carefully unlocked her weathered electric tricycle, its rusting frame leaning precariously despite the stability provided by its trio of wheels.
 
She ran her wrinkled fingers over scratches and dents in the chipped paint, each imperfection etched into memory from endless daily use. The cracked leather seat evoked the ache in Joan’s spine, bent from a lifetime of labour.
 
This weary steed had borne the brunt of her struggles, sharing the agony of each slow mile across town. Joan cradled its cold handlebars for a moment, like one might embrace an old friend before a long journey.
 
Their fates were intertwined, two frail souls forged by the fire of years now facing the chilled dawn. Joan steadied her nerves and mounted the protesting tricycle. Its rusty frame groaned under her slight weight. Together they would face the ominous morning ahead.

The trike’s battery level was low after yesterday’s use, she had forgotten to plug it in overnight, much like Joan’s own energy reserves these days. She made a mental note to recharge it before her next round of deliveries as she creaked open the iron gate of her small apartment building. Her joints protested the motion, echoes of a life now fading into twilight.
 
Joan shuffled along the cracked sidewalk, each step a small triumph of will over her aching joints. The city was still wrapped in the hushed serenity of dawn, the frenzied energy of its inhabitants not yet roused.
 
She clutched her frayed coat tighter against the lingering chill. Fog still haunted corners, shifting subtly as if alive. But tentative rays were banishing the gloom, bringing a false sense of reprieve.
 
At the corner cafe, the bittersweet aroma of roasted beans wafted through the air, beckoning invitingly. Saliva pooled in Joan’s dry mouth at the thought of a hot coffee to warm her bones.
 
Yet she averted her eyes and trudged past the cafe hurriedly. Indulgences were not meant for the likes of her, not on the meager savings she scraped together from each grueling delivery. A moment’s pleasure had its price.
 
The morning sun flashed off windows above, glinting like sharp knives. The city was stirring now, its frenetic energy building. Joan steeled herself for the trials ahead, hunger and temptation left in her wake.
 
She mounted the tricycle gingerly, its worn seat evoking memories of endless shifts spent pedalling across town. The miles were etched in its cracked leather and in the aching bend of Joan’s spine. She winced as her knees buckled from the effort, but embraced the familiar pain. It was a companion on her daily journey, as familiar as the laboured cadence of her heartbeat.
 
The city came alive around Joan as she pedalled her protesting tricycle through the streets. Storefront roller shutters rattled open, the metallic clatter breaking the dawn’s silence. Baristas wiped down tables, the scent of espresso mingling with the damp morning air. Commuters emerged from the subway, grey faces brightening at the sight of awaited coffees.
 
Joan absorbed the urban renewal around her. But she knew its promise wasn’t meant for those whose bones now creaked out a dirge with every movement. Her own revival came only in the form of brief reprieves – a chatting customer, the glint of sunlight through parting clouds.
 
 
As she turned a corner, the SnailRabbit app’s familiar notification chime made Joan’s pulse quicken anxiously. Another delivery already, its location and contents still a mystery.
 
She pulled over unsteadily and retrieved the phone from her coat pocket with trembling fingers. The cracked screen glared up, revealing the details in harsh light. 14th floor apartment. Family mega bucket from KFC.
 
Joan’s stomach knotted as she read the last line, glowing up at her like a baleful punishment. Note: Building lift out of order.
 
 
At the fast-food restaurant, Joan parked her trike and shuffled inside. She scanned the garish menu boards with their photos of glistening fried chicken and oversized soft drinks.

Who ordered such rubbish so early in the morning?
 
The air was thick with the cloying odour of old grease. Behind Joan, a janitor swept up scattered popcorn kernels from the previous night’s revelry. She wondered if he was now destined for the same precarious fate that awaited when youth’s vitality waned.
 
At the counter, a teenager wordlessly loaded a huge carboard bucket overflowing with fried chicken into Joan’s insulated carrier. The sheer quantity was obscene. She tried to imagine the recipient up there in his apartment, a young technocrat perhaps, getting his gluttonous fill. The crispy aroma of fried chicken wafted up faintly from the insulated bag, making her mouth water and roil at the same time. She pictured the numerous landings she’d have to ascend, legs burning, lungs gasping for breath. 
 
 
Outside, Joan fastened the bulky bag to the back of her trike. She pedalled off unsteadily, weighed down by the absurd extravagance of the order. Who required such gross excess delivered to their door? She could guess the type – entitled, impatient, completely devoid of empathy. Resigned to her task, she pedalled onward.
 

On the 14th floor of the crumbling Albion Heights high-rise, 17-year-old Jacob Lee-Moog peered at his iPhone 23 screen.
 
Jacob smiled deviously as he activated the telephoto lens on his iPhone 23, zooming in on the KFC a mile away across from the Albion Heights tower block. He sent the video feed to the large wall screen so his friends could watch their target’s arrival.
 
“Get ready boys, the show’s about to start,” he jeered, focusing the camera on the restaurant’s entrance. Before long, an elderly woman emerged teetering under the weight of a mega bucket. Even from this distance, her hunched posture and shuffling gait screamed frailty.
 
Jacob’s friends erupted in contemptuous laughter, their glazed eyes struggling to focus on the tiny figure struggling across the screen. The taunts and mocking filled Jacob with twisted delight.
 
The three boys erupted into contemptuous laughter. Jacob had placed the order, deliberately choosing heavy items and the cheaper delivery choice, to torture the “snail” courier into climbing all those stairs.
 
“This is gonna be funny,” snickered Jacob’s friend Alex in his reedy voice. “Let’s film the old bat struggling to get up here.” They readied their phones with twisted grins, drooling in anticipation.
 
Jacob smiled, relishing the rush of power making geriatrics suffer gave him. It alleviated the boredom of his pointless existence. He buzzed with cruel excitement. The fun was about to begin.
 
The Albion Heights apartment building crumbling façade was streaked with rain rust weeping from broken pipes. Joan could just make out the tattered remains of the nameplate hanging by one rusty screw, the once proud letters spelling out “BREEAM Excellent 2024” now faded and barely legible.
 
Joan leaned her tricycle against a wall with peeling paint that crumbled under her fingers. She prayed it would still be waiting when she finished this wretched delivery. Its faded frame was all that tethered her to the outside world.

The dingy lobby smelled of mould, greasy food, and stale urine. Crumpled fast food wrappers and muddy footprints covered the floor.
 
The stairwell was dimly lit by a flickering bulbs, the edges pooled in shadow. The walls were marked with graffiti tags that seemed to writhe and pulse with the dancing light. The handrail felt loose, rattling under her grip, as if about to detach completely.
 
With each laborious step, the scent of fried chicken rising from the insulated bag grew stronger, mixing sickly with the other smells. Joan pictured the impatient recipient in 14B, oblivious to the distress he was causing.
 
By the 5th floor Joan’s lungs burned and head swam. By the 8th her knees screamed in protest and ankles swelled against her shoes. On the landing she slumped against the wall, gagging at a pile of discarded food containers crawling with roaches.
 
What type of human garbage would allow such squalor? She imagined the inhabitant of 14B and shuddered. True rot lay not in the peeling walls but the souls inside them. Gripping the sticky handrail, she steeled herself to soldier on.

“Why are people such slobs?” Joan thought to herself.

“Why are they such slobs?” 
 
On the 10th floor landing, Joan leaned against the wall, catching her breath. The mega bucket weighed heavily in her clenched fist, the flimsy plastic handle digging into her fingers. Each landing she surmounted was now a minor triumph.
 
Forcing her aching legs up the next flight, she grimaced as pain lanced through her knees. Age had gradually stiffened her joints until bending was agony. She placed each foot carefully, relying on the handrail as much as her own frail legs.
 
By the 13th floor, her pulse thrummed in her ears. Sweat soaked her nylon coat as grimy dust motes swirled in the beams of light filtering down from cracked windows. She squinted up the last stairwell stretch, its summit hazy in the gloom.
 
With a pained groan, she soldiered up the final steps. Breath came in ragged gasps that echoed in the concrete chamber. She emerged into the dingy hallway like a boxer after a brutal bout. Limping to the scuffed door of 14B, she gave a feeble knock.
 
The sound of raucous male laughter emanated from within the apartment, cruel and mocking. She hesitated, heart sinking. What fresh hell awaited behind this scarred door?

“Come in, it’s not locked”.
 
The voice that bid her enter was callous and dripping with malice. Every instinct told her to turn and flee this dreadful place. But duty compelled her forward. She had delivered this far, through pain and exhaustion. 
 
With a trembling hand, Joan turned the tarnished handle. The metal felt hot, as if scorching from the flaming hellscape she was about to enter. An agonised creak echoed down the empty hallway as the door swung slowly inward.
 
Joan stepped warily into the dim apartment, the air hazy with vape smoke and beer. Crumpled fast food bags and beer cans littered the stained carpet like the remnants of a party.
 
Three teenage boys lounged on a tattered sofa, scrolling phones and sniggering. Joan suppressed a cough as the smoke irritated her lungs.
 
“Well well, the snail finally made it!” exclaimed the skinny, pasty-faced ringleader, Jacob. “We were starting to think you got lost.” His reedy voice dripped with theatrical malice.
 
“Or maybe she stopped to take a little old lady nap on the stairs!” jeered Jacob’s friend Alex. His wheezing laugh sounded like a sputtering engine. The third silent boy simply leered at Joan with bloodshot eyes.
 
Their mocking voices hammered Joan’s ears as she extended her quivering arms, desperate to offload the heavy bucket. She averted her gaze from the boys, focusing on the dirty floor tiles.

Up close, she now saw their swagger for what it was – the false bravado of directionless youths trapped in endless, empty days. Behind the bluster lay rotting souls that fed on others’ suffering. 

“What’s wrong granny, too tired to talk?” Jacob sneered. “I guess those knees don’t work like they used to, huh?”
 
The apartment echoed with their laughter. Joan’s cheeks burned but she held her tongue. Talking back would only stoke their cruelty.
 
After an agonising minute, Jacob rose from the sagging sofa. “I guess I gotta get up and rescue that chicken before she drops it.”
 
Alex gave an exaggerated groan of effort as he mimed slowly rising to his feet. “Come on granny, just a few more steps.”
 
Jacob swiped the bucket from her shaking white-knuckled grip, the plastic handle scraping her skin. Joan exhaled, suppressing a whimper.
 
“Whoa, it smells like the old bat peed herself!” Alex exclaimed, wrinkling his nose. The three boys erupted in laughter again.
 
Joan blinked back tears of humiliation as she turned to hobble out. Their scornful eyes followed her agonized progress. Gripping the rail desperately, she descended towards sweet escape. She focused on each trembling step, their mocking voices receding above.
 
Chapter 2
 
“It’s dead simple, Mum,” Tim said, showing his grandmother the SnailRabbit app on his mobile. “Customers order a delivery, then choose either fast rabbit or slow snail, see?”
 
He scrolled through the screens slowly. “Look here – if they really need something in a hurry, I zip around on my bike as the ‘rabbit.’ But if they pick ‘snail’ to save some dosh, an older rider nearby gets a notification instead.”
 
Tim’s Mum peered closely at the phone, nodding along. “I think I get the gist, love. Us old dodderers do the slow deliveries while you young ‘uns rush around, eh?”
 
“Too right, Mum!” Tim chuckled. “Just imagine those senior couriers shuffling along, taking their time, having a good long chinwag at each stop. Meanwhile, I’ll be racing to my drop-offs quick-style on my bike.”
 
His Mum smiled knowingly. “Yes, I suppose we old folks do like to take the scenic route and not be in such a bloody hurry all the time. You cheek little so and so.” She did a mock flick at him with a tea towel.
 
“You go on then, love. Enjoy the ride with your young legs. These old bones of mine won’t be pedalling about town any time soon. But say hello to any nice old snail couriers you see for me, will you?”
 
“I will mum,” Tim said, giving her a peck on the cheek before grabbing his helmet and speeding outside into the crisp autumn air.
 
The wind whipped against Tim’s grinning face as he pedalled swiftly through the bustling city streets. He relished the speed and freedom of cycling after being cooped up at home during the pandemic lockdowns of ‘28. It washed away the lingering gloom that had settled on his soul.
 
Tim was flying along his usual route when suddenly he swerved, narrowly avoiding a large package tumbling into the roadway. Looking up, he spotted the source – an elderly woman on an unsteady tricycle, struggling to mount a steep hill ahead.
 
Recognising the woman’s faded SnailRabbit jacket, Tim looped back to help. The poor lady was slumped over her handlebars, wheezing, and gasping for breath.
 
“Having some trouble with this delivery, ma’am?” Tim asked kindly as he lifted the box out of potential oncoming traffic.
 
The woman raised her head slowly, eyes clouded with cataracts but brightening with surprise and gratitude. “Oh bless you, young man,” she said in a quivery voice. “These hills grow so dreadfully steep when your legs aren’t what they used to be.”
 
“I’m Joan”, she said, shaking Tim’s hand. Her touch sparked bittersweet memories of Tim’s own grandmother, who had passed at the start of the pandemic.
 
Together, Tim and Joan managed to load her heavy parcel back into the trike’s rusty basket. Joan sighed, seeming embarrassed. “Thank you for the help, dear. Ever since my grandson James died, it’s been hard to manage. He was the only one of my family left.”
 
Tim’s heart ached in empathy. “I’m so very sorry to hear that, Joan. I lost my dear Nan just as the pandemic struck too.”
 
He gave her bony shoulder a gentle, comforting squeeze. Though separated by generations, their grief bound them in kinship. Joan managed a sad smile in return.
 
“Well, I suppose we both must simply carry on as best we can,” she said wistfully before pedalling off once more, renewed by the compassion she had found that day.
 
Tim waved goodbye, warmed by having brightened a lonely senior’s difficult journey even briefly. Though their paths diverged, their spirits were lifted by the knowledge that goodness can be found along the winding byways of life, if one remembers to look.
 
*
 
Over the ensuing weeks, an unlikely kinship blossomed between energetic teenager Tim and weary elderly Joan, connected through their SnailRabbit deliveries as their paths criss-crossed.
 
Tim frequently spotted Joan’s rickety tricycle listing precariously under bulky boxes as she struggled up hills. He’d rush to help stabilise her heavy loads.
 
“Let me lend you a hand with that parcel,” Tim would call out.
 
“Bless you, my boy,” Joan would reply gratefully. “My balance isn’t as steady as it once was over these bumpy roads.”
 
“How are your joints faring today?” Tim asked one blustery afternoon, securing a leaky bag of ice melting into Joan’s basket.
 
“Oh fine, fine,” she replied blithely before her expression clouded. “Well, truthfully my knees still ache something dreadful from that tumble down the stairs years ago.” She paused, old wounds flickering in her eyes. Tim gave her shoulder a gentle, comforting squeeze.
 
“I’m always here if you need help or just to listen,” he said. Joan managed a small, appreciative smile in return.
 
“University applications are due soon, but I haven’t a clue what to study or do with my life,” he confessed one foggy morning as they huddled together under a cafe awning seeking shelter from the rain.
 
Joan smiled sympathetically and encouraged him to explore different paths to discover his passions. Her kind words shone bright, guiding him through the murky uncertainty that shrouded his view ahead.
 
But Tim noticed Joan’s usual cheerfulness disappeared whenever the SnailRabbit app notified her of a delivery to Albion Heights. Her shoulders would slump, as if an immense weight had just been dropped upon them.
 
One dreary afternoon when 14B flashed on Joan’s phone, Tim finally asked “Is everything alright? You seem worried about this order.”
 
Joan hesitated, then confessed haltingly that the occupant of 14B tormented her with outrageously heavy orders up multiple flights of stairs. Tim listened getting angrier at each tale.
 
“He’s just an idle youth who enjoys mocking my struggles for his own twisted amusement,” she said bitterly, a lifetime of painful memories swirling to the surface.
 
Joan went on to share how she had considered refusing the 14B orders to avoid the abuse and humiliation. But the app would ban her if she rejected too many. At her age, she had few other options for income.
 
Tim saw hot tears welling in Joan’s eyes. His heart broke, imagining this sweet lady being so cruelly exploited.
 
Gently enveloping her frail shoulders in a hug, he said “I’ll come with you on the 14B deliveries from now on. We can tackle them together – the heavy loads and the heckling. You shouldn’t have to face it alone.”
 
Joan looked up with surprise and gratitude shining through her tears. “Bless you, dear boy. I would so appreciate the company.”
 
And so together they began braving the arduous 14B deliveries, Tim helping shoulder ridiculous loads like 20kg bags of rice or cases of bottled water up the dingy stairwells.
 
At the graffiti-scarred door, he would gently steady Joan’s trembling hands as she knocked, then shield her from the occupant’s leering contempt when he answered.
 
Over weeks of visits, the torment continued. The smelly apartment echoed with mocking laughter at Joan’s laboured breathing and unsteady gait as she delivered order after impossible order.
 
But Tim’s stalwart support kept Joan going when she was ready to give up and withdraw from SnailRabbit completely.
 
Chapter 3
 
“Ugh, that scrawny rabbit kid is helping her again,” Jacob grumbled, peering out his smeared window. On the sidewalk below, Tim was loading packages into Joan’s bike basket as she smiled appreciatively.
 
“We gotta prank him good,” chuckled Jacob’s friend Alex. They exchanged mischievous grins, craving excitement to cut through the dull haze of their directionless days.
 
Meanwhile, Joan sighed with relief as Tim secured the last parcel. “Thank you, dear,” she said warmly. “These old bones aren’t what they used to be.”
 
Tim smiled back, happy to help. Ever since discovering Jacob’s mistreatment of Joan, he felt compelled to intervene. If easing one senior’s struggles provided meaning, then so be it.
 
Back upstairs, Jacob’s face twisted with annoyance as he observed their interaction. Bad enough the old lady kept up with making the deliveries. Now this do-good kid thought he could thwart Jacob’s fun?
 
“Enjoy it while you can, rabbit boy,” Jacob muttered under his breath. “You’ll learn not to cross me soon enough…”
 
Jacob became obsessed with finding creative new ways to continue tormenting the elderly couriers.
 
“I can’t just straight up order 50 bricks’ or some crap. They’ll ban me,” he complained to his friend Alex one afternoon as they lounged around stained sofa cushions surrounded by crumpled fast food wrappers.
 
Alex just shrugged, his glazed eyes struggling to focus. “I dunno dude, guess you’ll have to get more clever with it.”
 
A slow, devious smile spread across Jacob’s face. “More clever eh? I can do that.”
 
He pulled out his phone, scrolling thoughtfully through the app’s inventory lists. A dizzying array of items greeted him, full of potential for abuse.
 
“Check this out,” Jacob said, tapping on 5 litre water jugs – max quantity 4 with a cruel glint in his eye.
 
Alex leaned over his shoulder, laughing as he caught on. “Sick idea! Those old geezers will be struggling big time with that heavy load.”
 
Jacob’s lip curled imagining the courier’s frail arms shaking under the weight of 4 sloshing plastic jugs, their thin skin mottled and distended by bulging veins. He eagerly submitted the order.
 
Soon he was scouring the inventory for other innocent-sounding products hiding sinister densities. 10-kilo sacks of potatoes guaranteed to rub aged hands raw as they labored to stabilize the bulky, uneven mass.
 
Giant 24-packs of canned food that would force impossibly wide, heavy steps up the urine-soaked stairwells. He pictured spines compressing painfully under the load, legs bowing.
 
“Dumbbell sets! Let’s max those out,” Jacob said with a cruel chuckle. The exaggerated weights were meant to build strong young bodies, not weigh down fragile seniors.
 
He imagined cries creaking from arthritic joints as ligaments and tendons stretched to near tearing. Wheezing lungs starved for mercy. Bony shoulders on the verge of dislocating under crushing burdens. It fed Jacob’s cruelest impulses.
 
“How about this – kitty litter tubs. Who’s gonna suspect?” Alex suggested,equally enthralled by the dark fantasies they were weaving.
 
Soon they were lost in scheming up new items to disguise sadistic deliveries – bags of sand, crates of nails, rolls of vinyl flooring. Each a torture device masquerading as a mundane product.
 
Jacob would tremble in anticipation waiting for the app’s notifications confirming his twisted orders had been claimed by unsuspecting couriers. He imagined their gradual realization when lifting the packages – the horror dawning in their eyes. It seemed almost too easy.
 
“Wish we could see their faces when they try to pick this crap up,” Alex grumbled after they had exhausted their creativity.
 
Jacob’s own face suddenly lit up. “Maybe we can…” He jumped up, rummaging through a closet overflowing with electronic gadgets from his family’s market stall, when he still had a family, many still in boxes. Finally, he unearthed some wireless security cameras.
 
“We’ll hide these in the lobby and stairwells! Then we can watch everything on my laptop,” Jacob exclaimed, his heart racing.
 
As Alex helped him install the pinhole cameras out of sight, Jacob swelled with anticipation. Now he could witness every laboured step, hear every agonized groan as if he were a demon on their shoulder.
 
*
 
Soon Tim and Joan were trudging up the stairwell multiple times a week lugging oversized loads. At his door, Jacob mocked their struggles, coming out with icy cups of water that he “accidentally” sloshed onto them.
 
After one liquid dousing, Tim snapped. “That’s enough! We’re not taking any more orders from you.” Jacob sneered back. “Go ahead, refuse. But SnailRabbit will just keep sending my orders and you can only refuse a few of them before you’re fired.”
 
Joan placed a hand on Tim’s shoulder. “He’s right. We must get through this somehow.” Though the work inflamed her arthritis, she felt bound to persevere, remembering her own bullies from childhood.

Chapter 4
 
The stairwell air was stagnant and stale, tinged with the acrid odour of urine and burnt oil from countless takeout meals. With each laboured step, the plastic bag handles dug painfully into Joan’s arthritic fingers. She was schlepping Jacob’s latest outrageous order – four six-packs of beer bottles weighing heavily in her and Tim’s grip.
 
Rats skittered away from the trembling beam of Joan’s flashlight as she navigated the dingy stairs. Crumpled sweet wrappers and cigarette butts littered the corners, remnants of bored loitering. Graffiti tags marked the peeling walls like territorial etchings.
 
By the 10th floor, Joan’s lungs burned, and knees ached. The load strained her weary muscles as she aspired towards the 14th floor finish line. She focused on steadying her rattling breath, trying to ignore the shooting pains jolting through her joints.
 
Tim helped carried all the cases for the last few floors. Joan smiled through wheezes of exhaustion. Though spent, she felt a wave of contentment seeing her young friend’s caring face. It gave her strength to endure whatever juvenile taunts Jacob had in store today. Together, they approached his scarred door.
 
As Joan knocked, Tim subtly opened his phone camera and started recording. When Jacob swung open the door, his lip curled into a sneer.
 
“Well, well, I was starting to think you’d gotten too old for this, granny,” he jeered as Joan held out the beer cases. Behind him, his friends cackled cruelly. “I can’t believe this old snail is still alive!” he jeered as Joan extended the quivering beer cases. “Thought you’d have curled up and died on the stairs by now.” His waste-of-space mates laughed sycophantically behind him.
 
As Joan remained stoically silent, Jacob swiped a case from her shaking hands. “Whoops, butterfingers,” he said as a bottle broke open, soaking Joan’s shoes in sticky beer.
 
Rage boiled inside Tim, but he kept the camera steady, capturing every contemptuous word. This evidence would finally get Jacob banned from SnailRabbit.
 
“That old girl is proper struggling, look at her face! She’s about to pop her clogs any minute,” remarked Alex. The others chuckled, placing bets on if she’d make it without collapsing.
 
After the delivery, Tim quickly uploaded the video to SnailRabbit’s complaint portal along with a scathing review of Jacob’s abusive behaviour.

*
 
Jacob grabbed his buzzing phone, expecting another food delivery order. Instead, a terse message glared back: “Your account is suspended – conduct violation.”
 
“What?!” Jacob exploded in rage. That meddling rabbit! He must have reported Jacob to get back at him.
 
Jacob’s fingers trembling with anger as he explained the situation to Alex and the others. “We gotta get back at that kid and the old hag,” he seethed.
 
But his friends shifted uncomfortably, not meeting his enraged gaze. “Dude, I dunno…” Alex muttered. “We’ll just get arrested, let’s do something else.”
 
Jacob spat out a string of curses, but he could see the fear in their eyes. His so-called friends didn’t have the guts for vengeance. For the first time, Jacob felt utterly powerless. The realisation stung worse than any punishment.
 
 
*
 
The underground walkway bustled noisily with the morning commute, bicycles jangling and footsteps echoing off concrete walls splashed with graffiti tags. Joan slowly shuffled along, focused intently on maintaining her fragile grip on the oversized SnailRabbit delivery bag.
 
Suddenly, a tall, hooded figure lurched out from behind a grime-coated pillar and forcefully grabbed hold of the insulated satchel looped over Joan’s thin shoulders. 
 
“Help! Thief!” Joan cried out in her wavering voice, the shocked face of a nearby businessman registering through the tunnel din. She wobbled unsteadily on her feet as the thief violently yanked at her courier bag.
 
Nearby pedestrians began wheeling around in alarm amidst the escalating scuffle. “Someone stop him!” a businessman in a smart overcoat yelled, briefcase tumbling from his hand.
 
Tim had just biked his way down the dingy concrete stairwell into the underpass when the faint shouts reached his ears over the surrounding traffic noise. As he emerged into the tunnel, he spotted the familiar, hunched form of Joan grappling wildly with a tall assailant.
 
“Oi, let her go!” Tim shouted, hastily dropping his bike with a clatter and sprinting over to tackle the hooded thief. The cursing robber swung viciously at Tim, who ducked the blow and charged forward, knocking him hard against a grimy wall covered in graffiti markings. 
 
Pinning the struggling thief down with the help of a burly passer-by, Tim frantically yelled to the hesitant onlookers gaping nearby, “Call the police, quickly.”
 
A smartly dressed woman with a visitor’s city map sticking out of her purse nervously fumbled for her mobile and dialed 999, while others moved cautiously closer, prepared to help restrain the robber who continued cursing vehemently.
 
“Help me called out Tim and more bystanders joined in helping to subdue the wriggling assailant.
 
Tim got up and walked over to Joan.
 
“It’s alright Joan, try to breathe. Help is coming,” Tim said in as calm and soothing a tone as he could muster over the assailant’s shouts, gently guiding a badly shaking Joan away from the ongoing tussle.
 
Joan gave a small nod, but her eyes remained wide with shock, frail body trembling uncontrollably from the trauma as Tim carefully sat her down on a nearby bench. She flinched reflexively when a bicycle whizzed loudly past.
 
After agonizing minutes of tense waiting and struggles, a police siren’s welcome wail finally echoed from the stairwell. Two bobbies in neon yellow vests emerged down the steps and briskly took over apprehending the subdued but still surly thief where several civilians had pinned him prone on the grimy tiles.
 
As the officers snapped handcuffs over the assailant’s wrists, Joan gasped loudly in sudden recognition.
 
“Why…it’s that awful boy Jacob from the flat!” She turned anxiously to Tim who nodded grimly back, unsurprised to see their tormenter in custody at last.
 
While Joan was ushered over to a waiting ambulance so the paramedics could check her for any possible injuries, Tim quickly provided his own statement to the lead investigator:
 
“That hooded thief is Jacob Lee-Moore of 14B Albion Heights,” Tim began in a rush of words. “He’s been relentlessly harassing and exploiting elderly couriers from SnailRabbit for weeks now. Abusing the app to order impossible loads just so he can laugh at them struggling desperately to deliver.”
 
Tim went on describe the surveillance footage he had captured clearly evidencing Jacob’s campaign of targeted abuse.
 
The officer, an older gentleman himself, shook his head in disgust and tutted as he jotted down the details. “Preying upon and tormenting vulnerable elderly folks for his own twisted amusement? This Jacob Moore has got himself in very deep trouble indeed.”
 
After Joan’s check-up by the ambulance crew, Tim helped the still visibly shaken and unsteady woman into a passing taxi that had pulled up, giving her trembling hand one last comforting squeeze before reluctantly closing the door.
 
“Get some rest Joan, I’ll come by to check on you tomorrow morning. That ordeal is over now,” he said, mustering an encouraging smile.
 
Joan gave a small, but incredibly brave nod in return. Her eyes had regained a faint spark of resolute resilience. It lifted Tim’s spirits to see as the cab slowly pulled away from the curb, the trauma of this attack having awakened the strong-willed fighter within Joan once more.
 
Several weeks later, Tim adjusted his one good dress shirt fidgeting nervously in the cavernous courtroom as he prepared to testify at Jacob’s sentencing hearing about the extensive history of abuse and exploitation.
 
A stern-faced magistrate peered down imposingly from the lofty bench at a subdued and meek Jacob standing silently beside his flustered high-priced lawyer in an ill-fitting thrift store suit.
 
Though Tim had steeled himself to face down his former tormentor, his mouth still went dry when he was called to speak. But Joan’s reassuring nod from the gallery emboldened him.
 
When it was Joan’s turn, she slowly approached the microphone stand with quivering hands, pulling out a prepared statement.
 
“Hurting this boy won’t undo the harm already wrought,” Joan began in a voice wavering yet resolved. “But perhaps with compassion and rehabilitation, the goodness still inside him can be brought back into the light.”
 
The magistrate removed his glasses and nodded thoughtfully at Joan’s words, seeming to reconsider his initial harsh assessment of the sullen defendant. Joan dabbed at tears as she returned to her seat in the gallery. Tim reached over to squeeze her trembling hand, in awe of her grace and resilience.
 
The sound of the gavel striking its block rung with notes of finality. When Tim glanced over at Jacob, he thought he glimpsed the glistening of a solitary tear tracing down the subdued boy’s cheek. Perhaps the seed of redemption had been planted after all. There was hope yet for that battered soul.
 
Together, Tim and Joan made their way down the imposing courthouse steps into the open, fresh spring sunshine, the promise of healing ahead.
 
On the courthouse lawn, a robin’s morning song greeted them. Tim and Joan paused to listen, hearts filled with hope. The cold winter had passed. Ahead, the prospect of brighter seasons waited.*
 
A couple of weeks later Tim biked up to Albion Heights with a plain brown package addressed to 4C from JustEnd Inc. That mysterious company name seemed to be appearing more and more among his deliveries lately. Tim was curious what they could be sending to people. His apprehension at making a delivery to Albion Heights was starting to fade. He noticed there was a Community Service van parked just outside the entrance and group of petty-offenders were being issued with gloves, brushes and buckets. Tim’s eyes widened when he realised that one of them was Jacob.
 
He walked up the stairs smiling to himself until he reached the fourth floor. He pressed the buzzer for 4C and a middle-aged man named Alex answered. After handing over the package with his usual friendly smile, Tim headed back down the familiar grimy stairwell.
 
On the third floor landing, the sound of sloshing grey water caught his attention. There knelt Jacob, scrub brush in hand, focused intently on removing years of accumulated filth from the concrete steps.
 
The pungent fumes of chemical cleaners mixed with the smell of mildew permeated the air. Above Jacob, the flaking paint of a massive graffiti tag marked the wall. His supervisor stood nearby, arms crossed, ensuring every speck of dirt was banished.
 
Head down in resignation, Jacob didn’t even glance up to see Tim pass. The fiery malice that once burned in his eyes had been extinguished.
 
With a satisfied smile, Tim continued his descent and headed off on to his next destination. He pedalled eagerly towards tea and pleasant conversation with dear Joan, ready to share the day’s events. He had some news she was sure to be interested in.