A rare date night.

  Lin checked his watch for the third time.

  7:20 PM. The movie started at 7:30.

  The popcorn he'd bought sat in the empty seat next to him, beads of condensation already running down the side of the soda cup.

  A message from Susan popped up on his phone: "The rich old guy at the hospital needed an unscheduled check-up. Just finished helping him out. Heading back to change now, but traffic's gonna be a nightmare. At least half an hour before I get to the theater."

  That old guy, again.

  He knew Susan was working as a caregiver, recently assigned to a wealthy, immobile patient. The pay was decent, but the hours were completely unpredictable. Whenever the old man had an "issue," she had to go.

  He typed back: "The movie's starting."

  "You go ahead, I'll try to make it asap," Susan replied.

  Lin didn't respond.

  This wasn't the first time.

  Last week's dinner, the park stroll the week before that – all postponed or canceled because of the old man's "unforeseen circumstances."

  A sudden thought struck him. He grabbed his phone and tapped on a specific icon – "13Seconds."

  A crazy idea bloomed.

  If this app could find a lost ring, retrieve a stuffed toy from twenty years ago, even put a price on "finding" someone who had passed away...

  Could it take a person who actually existed, and "deliver" them from one place to another?

  He glanced at the empty seat beside him.

  Lin started typing in the search bar.

  Initially, he typed "Susan," then thought better of it, deleting it and replacing it with a more specific description: "Deliver Susan to AMC Empire 25, Theater 3, Row 9, Seat 12."

  He could almost picture the system's response: "Item not found."

  He hit the search button.

  The screen loaded.

  A photo of Susan appeared.

  It was her ID photo.

  Below the picture was a line of text: "Target Confirmed: Susan (Female, 32). Current coordinates locked. Recalculating ownership and cost for delivery to specified coordinates."

  Lin was startled.

  It actually recognized her.

  A price field appeared at the bottom of the screen.

  Delivery Fee: $10.

  Lin froze. Ten dollars? How could it be only ten dollars?

  His mind raced. Susan's work as a caregiver, plus her occasional side gigs – even accounting for some margin of error, there was no way she should be priced this low.

  He re-checked his search terms. Everything was correct.

  He looked again at Susan's photo and name. It was definitely her. The price was unmistakable: Delivery Fee $10, Total $10.

  What was off here?

  Lin recalled that when he'd retrieved the ring and the stuffed toy, those were also ten dollars each.

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  But those were inanimate objects.

  Susan was a living person. The logic behind the pricing should be different.

  Unless...

  Maybe the calculation was different for someone close to you? Or for someone you were married to?

  He clicked the order button. The payment screen popped up.

  Fingerprint confirmed.

  Payment successful.

  Lin looked back at the empty seat beside him.

  Thirteen seconds.

  The light in the seat seemed to warp, like heat shimmer rising off asphalt on a scorching day.

  Then, abruptly, a figure materialized, collapsing into the seat.

  It was Susan.

  She was still wearing her light blue caregiver's uniform, her work ID badge pinned to her chest, a pen clutched in her hand.

  But her eyes were wide with confusion and shock.

  She jerked her head around, staring at her surroundings.

  On the massive screen, the previews had just cut to an intense action scene with deafening sound effects.

  She flinched, and the popcorn scattered onto the floor.

  "Lin... Lin?" Her voice trembled slightly. "What the... Where am I?"

  Lin looked at her, momentarily at a loss for words. "The theater. Where we planned to see the movie."

  Susan glanced down at her uniform, then touched her face as if to confirm this wasn't a dream. She looked around at the familiar surroundings, saw Lin, saw the popcorn and soda.

  Her breathing gradually steadied, but the bewilderment in her eyes remained.

  "How did I get here?" she asked. "I was just at the hospital..." She paused, trying to recall. "Then... it felt like everything flashed, like when the power goes out for a split second and comes right back on. The next thing I knew, I was sitting here."

  Lin handed her his phone, the screen still showing the "13Seconds" order details. It displayed the order: "Deliver Susan to Cinema," status "Completed," timestamp from thirteen seconds ago.

  Susan took the phone and stared at it for a long time. Her finger scrolled over the screen, repeatedly looking at the line of text and the $10 payment record. Her expression shifted from confusion, to disbelief, and finally to astonishment.

  "You used this... to 'send' me here?" Her voice was barely a whisper, almost drowned out by the movie's audio.

  "I just tried it," Lin said. "Never thought it would actually work."

  Susan handed the phone back, placing her hands on her knees, clenching them into fists. She stared at the screen, but clearly wasn't watching the film. The previews ended. The feature began. The opening score swelled as the studio logos spun on screen.

  "Ten dollars," Susan said suddenly. "Why ten dollars? Based on that rule you figured out before, I shouldn't be this cheap."

  Lin had been thinking the same thing. "There's only one explanation."

  He said, "The app determined that I own you. Or, more accurately, that we belong to each other. Like how the ring belonged to me, the toy belonged to you. For things that belong to me, the base delivery fee is ten dollars. For things that belong to you, it's the same."

  Susan turned to look at him. "Marriage?"

  "Legal spouse. It must be hooked into government databases, verifying in real-time. As long as the marriage exists, 'delivering' each other only costs a symbolic fee."

  "So, from now on, if I'm running late from work, you could just 'deliver' me straight home?" A small smile played on Susan's lips.

  "Theoretically, yes," Lin said. "Same for me."

  "Wow! Commute time, totally gone! Ha, no more subway fare, no more waiting around... all of it saved."

  Lin nodded. A strange excitement buzzed through him too. The app's capabilities were far beyond his comprehension.

  That night after they got home, they ran a test.

  Lin had Susan search for his name in the app, attempting to "deliver" him from the study to the living room.

  The result was identical: recognition successful, delivery fee ten dollars.

  After Susan paid, Lin materialized from his study chair onto the living room sofa within thirteen seconds, still holding the book he'd been reading.

  "Confirmed," Lin said.

  From that day on, things began to shift.

  Initially, it was just experimental.

  Susan's work hours were erratic; sometimes she wouldn't leave the hospital until ten at night. She'd text Lin, and he'd place the order through the app. Thirteen seconds later, Susan would appear at their doorstep, still in her uniform, bypassing the subway ride and fifteen-minute walk home.

  Soon, Lin started being "delivered" too. Sometimes he had late-running meetings at a client's office. He'd text Susan beforehand, and the moment the meeting ended, he'd step into a stairwell or restroom, wait for Susan to place the order, and thirteen seconds later, he'd be in his home study, ready to jump back into unfinished work. It eliminated a one-to-two-hour commute across the city.

  Lin even started a simple log on his computer.

  In the past fifteen days, they'd summoned each other twenty-eight times.

  Almost twice a day on average.

  Susan had summoned him fifteen times; he'd summoned Susan thirteen.

  Total commute time saved: approximately fifty-six hours.

  That was over two full working days.

  My God!

  Life suddenly felt like it had stretched out.

  Lin's remote work efficiency had jumped by thirty percent. He could use the time formerly wasted commuting for actual work, or for rest. A recent freelance project was nearly half a chapter ahead of schedule, the client was pleased, promising more work in the future.

  Susan's overtime noticeably decreased. Before, the long commute meant she'd often have to stay later to avoid missing the last train. Now, no matter how late, she could be home in an instant. The tiredness seemed to fade from her face a little; she was getting to bed earlier.

  On the surface, everything looked perfect.

  Convenient. Efficient. Time-saving.

  This app felt like the ultimate life-hack tool, perfectly patching the gaps created by their economic and work pressures.

  Convenient. Almost too convenient.