The sorting office smells like old paper and bike grease. Your bag is on the counter: six letters, each one hand-addressed, each one flagged as priority.

In a normal city, six letters would take an hour. But Meridian is not a normal city.

The streets rearrange themselves on a cycle that no one has fully mapped. Aspen Row connects to the canal district until noon, then swings east and becomes a dead end. The hospital is always in the same place, but the roads that reach it shift like a shuffled deck.

You have until sunset. The city will let you deliver some of these. Not all.

You read the addresses and choose your route.