Chapter 17: Volume 1, - 17: The Price Hidden in Delivery
Ren stood on the cracked asphalt of the Wada Delivery depot at six-thirty on Wednesday morning, the twenty-second of February. A cold February wind cut through his jacket. He wore plain trousers, a dark sweater beneath his ordinary coat, and a pair of cheap work gloves.
Before him stood Kenji Wada, a weathered fifty-two-year-old with strong forearms, cardboard dust on his faded work jacket, and a face tightened by too many early starts. Kenji’s eyes moved from Ren’s gloves to the notebook in his hand. His mouth tightened. Beside him, the van’s paint had faded around the doors, but the tyres showed even tread and the cargo straps inside were rolled into neat bundles.
"Genichiro’s grandson or not, I don’t have time to babysit someone who’s never run a route," Kenji said, slamming the rear door of the van. The metal rattled loudly in the quiet alley. "My morning routes are already behind, two drivers are waiting on late freight, and I don’t need a boy with a clipboard telling me how to steer."
Ren swallowed his first irritated reply. He needed the passenger seat more than he needed to win the argument. "I’m not here to tell you how to drive, Wada-san. Okada-san showed me her manifests. Her freight costs are climbing, and she says this route still loses you money. I just want to sit in the passenger seat for one morning loop. No advice, no interference. If I get in the way, put me out at the curb."
Kenji measured him for a long moment, his jaw working as though he already regretted the decision. "Get in," he said, tossing the clipboard onto the dashboard. "Keep your belt buckled. We don’t stop for coffee."
The route began wasting time before the van left the depot. Two suppliers delivered boxes forty minutes late, forcing Kenji to wait in the loading bay and reshuffle the cargo when the missing boxes finally arrived. Once on the road, the route wound through narrow residential alleys never designed for commercial vans. Kenji had to double-park three times, hazard lights blinking, while dodging bicycles and morning commuters.
At the third stop, Ren helped carry a box of printing paper weighing roughly fifteen kilograms up two narrow flights of stairs. By the landing, his lungs burned, sweat dampened his collar, and the ache beneath his ribs had sharpened enough to make him regret volunteering.
’The distant stops are swallowing time and fuel,’ Ren thought, leaning against the stairwell wall while the office clerk checked the box and signed the receipt. ’On paper, cutting them would clean up the route.’
By ten o’clock, Ren pulled out his pad, making notes while Kenji navigated a bottleneck near the station.
"You’re driving all the way out there for one or two boxes," Ren said, tapping the outer stops. "Why not combine them into fewer delivery days?"
Kenji pulled the van to the curb in front of Okada Stationery, pulled the handbrake with a harsh ratcheting sound, and turned to look at Ren.
"You think I haven’t tried?" Kenji jabbed a finger at the map. "The woman up on the ridge can’t carry a week’s supplies home. The clinic keeps almost nothing in storage, so they call when they need it." His finger moved to another stop. "The man running the binding shop uses a wheelchair. Tell me which one I’m supposed to abandon."
He shifted in his seat. "Those smaller shops can’t order enough for the national wholesalers. I stop going, they wait. That’s the route."
Heat climbed Ren’s neck. He had studied the map for an hour and still missed the people living on it. Part of him wanted to argue that the route was still irrational. A pettier part wanted Kenji to be wrong simply because of the way he had spoken to him.
They carried the binder of manifests into the back room of Okada Stationery, where Fumie Okada was waiting with three cups of bitter tea. She listened quietly as Ren admitted his premature conclusion.
"I fell into the same trap as yesterday," Ren said, staring at the handwritten logbooks laid across the table. "I looked for the easiest cut on paper without understanding what the service actually does."
Fumie sipped her tea, her sharp eyes moving between Ren and Kenji. "The route matters, Kenji. That doesn’t mean you can let customers change orders whenever they like and carry everything upstairs for free. Goodwill doesn’t pay for diesel."
Fumie looked at Ren. "Fine. The outer stops aren’t the answer. So where is he actually losing money?"
Ren turned back through the manifests. This time, he left the distant stops alone and marked every journey the drivers had been forced to repeat.
"The distant stops aren’t the main leak," Ren said. "It’s everything happening around them for free." He circled the clinic entries. "You drove there three times over the past week because its orders came after loading. That put you on the same road three times."
His pen moved lower. "You went back to two homes because no one answered the first time, and neither customer paid for the second trip. Then there are the stairs, timed requests and emergency orders. You’re doing all of that for the basic delivery price."
Kenji frowned. "They’re my long-time clients. I can’t just start slapping surprise fees on them."
"Then warn them first," Ren said. "Put the charges in writing and give them a choice before the next delivery."
Before drafting anything, Ren spoke with Kenji’s drivers and visited several customers along the nearby part of the route, asking what changes they could live with.
The older driver pointed toward the half-loaded van. "Give me a cutoff. Every late change means pulling boxes out and loading them again."
The younger driver shook his head. "Make it too early and we lose the clinic. They’re always late, but their orders help keep the weekday route alive."
Among the customers, the clinic manager threw up his hands at the idea of an eight AM order cutoff. "Eight is impossible. Our list doesn’t arrive until quarter past. Give us half an hour, or we can’t use the morning route."
Conversely, the binding-shop owner, who used a wheelchair, didn’t mind a fixed delivery window at all. "If Wada-san tells me he’s only coming on Tuesdays and Thursdays between ten and twelve, I’ll plan around it," he said with a shrug. "I just need to know when the truck is coming."
Another customer was open to paying a small surcharge if it meant Kenji continued bringing heavy items upstairs, but the print shop owner grumbled that he would carry his own boxes from the curb before paying a single extra yen.
Ren looked over his notes. Every change helped one customer and irritated another. The test would need exceptions, but not so many that nothing changed.
Ren drafted a limited test on a clean sheet of grid paper: an 8:30 a.m. confirmation deadline for the morning route, written categories for curbside drops, stair carries and timed requests, and a log of every approved exception.
Ren slid the paper across the table. "We run it once and write down what happens. If the numbers don’t improve, we drop it."
Fumie read the page twice. "It’s narrow enough to test. That’s all I’m agreeing to."
Kenji read the proposal without speaking. His thumb moved along the edge of the paper, but he did not sign it.
"Leave that copy with Okada," he said. "Come back to the depot."
The drive took less than ten minutes. Kenji did not speak once.
Inside Wada Delivery’s cramped back office, he locked the door and turned toward Ren.
"The test is fine," Kenji said. "It still doesn’t touch the thing that can close this company."
Ren frowned. "What are you talking about?"
Kenji walked over to a battered filing cabinet in the corner and opened the bottom drawer. He pulled out a thick envelope and placed it beside an oil-stained ledger.
"Wada Delivery owes ¥420,000 on an old account tied to your grandfather’s estate," Kenji said. He kept his eyes on Ren. "It’s overdue."
Ren looked from the envelope to Kenji. "What are you offering?"
Kenji pressed his palm against the cash envelope.
"You take what’s here today. Tell the estate the rest isn’t coming, close the account, and stop looking through my books."