She was a second generation delivery driver. Her father had been there from the beginning. He told tales off the best coffee shops, the places they’d all meet up, the races. He’d been involved in the attempts at unionisation, he’d fought in the electric bike wars. He’d been proud to be an outsider, the new working class. It was all different now. She was a driver but she was a different class. She was premium, delivering to those who didn’t want drones. Who wanted special treatment. She checked her outfit as her glasses showed her first delivery. Name, conversation points.