Story code: ST-001390
Part 1: The Holiday Premium
The digital display on the stove glowed a bright, unforgiving green, reading exactly six-forty-two in the evening. Mateo had exactly eighteen minutes left of chewing overcooked turkey and nodding at Arthur’s meandering stories about the local hardware store in the nineteen-seventies. He kept his hands neatly folded on the floral tablecloth, maintaining the pleasant, placid expression that had earned him a flawless rating on the companion app. Across the small table, Arthur cut another tiny piece of meat with trembling, paper-thin hands. The elderly man wore a thick wool cardigan despite the stifling heat of the dining room, his eyes bright with the innocent thrill of finally having someone to talk to on a holiday.
Mateo shifted his weight on the wooden chair, feeling his phone heavy in his pocket. The app was running a silent countdown. Three hours booked, three hours paid, plus a holiday premium that would finally cover his overdue heating bill. He just had to make it to seven o’clock.
“My daughter Brenda usually comes out,” Arthur said, pointing a silver fork at the window where thick ice was rapidly forming on the glass. “She lives in the city now. Very busy woman. It was incredibly kind of her to arrange a visit from a nice young man like you.”
“It is a pleasure to be here, Arthur,” Mateo said. His voice was smooth and practiced. He did not mention the steep hourly rate Brenda was paying him, nor the fact that Brenda had not visited her father in three years, according to the notes left by previous app workers. Arthur believed Mateo was part of a local community volunteer program. Mateo let him believe it. It made the agonizingly slow minutes easier for both of them.
Outside, a brutal wind rattled the windowpanes. The forecast had warned of freezing rain turning into a sheer sheet of ice by nightfall. Mateo glanced at the stove clock again. Six-forty-eight. Twelve minutes. He took a small sip of room-temperature water.
“I have pumpkin pie in the kitchen,” Arthur announced, wiping his mouth with a cloth napkin. “Store-bought, I am afraid. But perfectly good.”
“Let me get it for you,” Mateo offered, rising quickly. It gave him an excuse to step out of the dining room, stretch his cramped legs, and check his phone without breaking character.
In the narrow, dimly lit kitchen, he pulled the device from his pocket. The companion app showed ten minutes remaining on the shift. He sliced two pieces of the dense, cold pie, put them on small porcelain plates, and carried them back.
The grandfather clock in the hallway ticked with a heavy, rhythmic thud. Arthur ate his pie with agonizing slowness, savoring every bite and launching into another lengthy memory about his late wife’s baking. Mateo ate his portion in three quick bites, nodding at all the right intervals. He focused on the oppressive warmth of the room, trying to ignore the howling wind outside.
Six-fifty-five. Five minutes. Mateo mentally rehearsed his polite exit strategy. He would thank Arthur for the meal, mention an early morning commitment, and promise to pass along Arthur’s love to Brenda. He would step out the door, swipe the red button on the app, and walk three freezing blocks to the bus stop.
Six-fifty-eight. Arthur set his fork down and leaned back, patting his stomach with a contented sigh. “That was wonderful. Truly wonderful. A house feels too big when you eat alone.”
“Thank you for sharing it with me,” Mateo said, wiping his mouth and placing his napkin on the table.
The stove clock ticked to seven-zero-zero.
Mateo felt a rush of profound relief. He pushed his chair back and stood up, reaching for his winter coat draped over the back of the neighboring chair.
“I should get going, Arthur,” Mateo said, sliding his arms into the thick sleeves. “The roads are getting bad out there, and I need to catch my bus.”
“Of course, of course,” Arthur said, smiling warmly. “Travel safe. Tell Brenda I said hello.”
Mateo reached into his pocket to pull out his phone, ready to finalize the transaction. As his thumb hovered over the screen, a new notification slid down from the top. It was a direct text message from Brenda.
Mateo tapped it, expecting a generic acknowledgment or a confirmation of the shift ending. Instead, the words on the screen made his stomach drop.
The text read: *The job is not done. The front gutters are clogged and the ice is backing up under the roof shingles. I need you to climb up and clear them out right now. The ladder is in the side garage.*
Mateo stared at the glowing screen. The wind slammed against the house again, rattling the frozen window in its frame. He looked at Arthur, who was humming quietly and stacking the dessert plates. Mateo looked back at the phone, his fingers suddenly numb. He quickly typed a reply, stating his shift was over, he was not equipped for roofing work, and the weather made it dangerously slick.
Brenda’s response arrived ten seconds later.
*You will do it or I will dispute the charge and tell the app you stole from my father. Then I will make a call to immigration about the fake ID you used to register your account. Up to you. Let me know when the gutters are clean.*
The silence in the dining room felt deafening. The grandfather clock ticked loudly in the hall. Mateo stood completely still, his coat halfway zipped, staring at the bright text message while the ice continued to build on the dark glass.
The digital display on the stove glowed a bright, unforgiving green, reading exactly six-forty-two in the evening. Mateo had exactly eighteen minutes left of chewing overcooked turkey and nodding at Arthur’s meandering stories about the local hardware store in the nineteen-seventies. He kept his hands neatly folded on the floral tablecloth, maintaining the pleasant, placid expression that had earned him a flawless rating on the companion app. Across the small table, Arthur cut another tiny piece of meat with trembling, paper-thin hands. The elderly man wore a thick wool cardigan despite the stifling heat of the dining room, his eyes bright with the innocent thrill of finally having someone to talk to on a holiday.
Mateo shifted his weight on the wooden chair, feeling his phone heavy in his pocket. The app was running a silent countdown. Three hours booked, three hours paid, plus a holiday premium that would finally cover his overdue heating bill. He just had to make it to seven o’clock.
“My daughter Brenda usually comes out,” Arthur said, pointing a silver fork at the window where thick ice was rapidly forming on the glass. “She lives in the city now. Very busy woman. It was incredibly kind of her to arrange a visit from a nice young man like you.”
“It is a pleasure to be here, Arthur,” Mateo said. His voice was smooth and practiced. He did not mention the steep hourly rate Brenda was paying him, nor the fact that Brenda had not visited her father in three years, according to the notes left by previous app workers. Arthur believed Mateo was part of a local community volunteer program. Mateo let him believe it. It made the agonizingly slow minutes easier for both of them.
Outside, a brutal wind rattled the windowpanes. The forecast had warned of freezing rain turning into a sheer sheet of ice by nightfall. Mateo glanced at the stove clock again. Six-forty-eight. Twelve minutes. He took a small sip of room-temperature water.
“I have pumpkin pie in the kitchen,” Arthur announced, wiping his mouth with a cloth napkin. “Store-bought, I am afraid. But perfectly good.”
“Let me get it for you,” Mateo offered, rising quickly. It gave him an excuse to step out of the dining room, stretch his cramped legs, and check his phone without breaking character.
In the narrow, dimly lit kitchen, he pulled the device from his pocket. The companion app showed ten minutes remaining on the shift. He sliced two pieces of the dense, cold pie, put them on small porcelain plates, and carried them back.
The grandfather clock in the hallway ticked with a heavy, rhythmic thud. Arthur ate his pie with agonizing slowness, savoring every bite and launching into another lengthy memory about his late wife’s baking. Mateo ate his portion in three quick bites, nodding at all the right intervals. He focused on the oppressive warmth of the room, trying to ignore the howling wind outside.
Six-fifty-five. Five minutes. Mateo mentally rehearsed his polite exit strategy. He would thank Arthur for the meal, mention an early morning commitment, and promise to pass along Arthur’s love to Brenda. He would step out the door, swipe the red button on the app, and walk three freezing blocks to the bus stop.
Six-fifty-eight. Arthur set his fork down and leaned back, patting his stomach with a contented sigh. “That was wonderful. Truly wonderful. A house feels too big when you eat alone.”
“Thank you for sharing it with me,” Mateo said, wiping his mouth and placing his napkin on the table.
The stove clock ticked to seven-zero-zero.
Mateo felt a rush of profound relief. He pushed his chair back and stood up, reaching for his winter coat draped over the back of the neighboring chair.
“I should get going, Arthur,” Mateo said, sliding his arms into the thick sleeves. “The roads are getting bad out there, and I need to catch my bus.”
“Of course, of course,” Arthur said, smiling warmly. “Travel safe. Tell Brenda I said hello.”
Mateo reached into his pocket to pull out his phone, ready to finalize the transaction. As his thumb hovered over the screen, a new notification slid down from the top. It was a direct text message from Brenda.
Mateo tapped it, expecting a generic acknowledgment or a confirmation of the shift ending. Instead, the words on the screen made his stomach drop.
The text read: *The job is not done. The front gutters are clogged and the ice is backing up under the roof shingles. I need you to climb up and clear them out right now. The ladder is in the side garage.*
Mateo stared at the glowing screen. The wind slammed against the house again, rattling the frozen window in its frame. He looked at Arthur, who was humming quietly and stacking the dessert plates. Mateo looked back at the phone, his fingers suddenly numb. He quickly typed a reply, stating his shift was over, he was not equipped for roofing work, and the weather made it dangerously slick.
Brenda’s response arrived ten seconds later.
*You will do it or I will dispute the charge and tell the app you stole from my father. Then I will make a call to immigration about the fake ID you used to register your account. Up to you. Let me know when the gutters are clean.*
The silence in the dining room felt deafening. The grandfather clock ticked loudly in the hall. Mateo stood completely still, his coat halfway zipped, staring at the bright text message while the ice continued to build on the dark glass.