“How do we even get back to Shanghai?” asked Jun as they ran up the stairs of the Non-Existent Parking Garage. “Our train is parked in a parking garage. It’s not going anywhere fast anymore.”
“Technically,” said Uncle Tao, “the train was never here. Technically, none of us were ever here. Technically, you are sitting comfortably at home right now.”
“Where was I in the last twenty-four hours technically?”
“Comfortably at home.”
“I live above a noodle shop.”
“Then it was very comfortable.”
When they reached the top, they found something strange: The train was gone. In its place stood a single delivery van, old, rusty, with a sticker logo that looked like someone had drawn a noodle bowl with a marker – which was exactly the case.
At the wheel: Bao-Bao. 🤖
“I rescheduled,” he said proudly. “Xiaofeng sent me the contact info of a vehicle renter. His name is Old Feng, he is the uncle of an acquaintance of a cousin of my first owner, and he lent us his delivery van for the trip. Condition: We deliver three packages in Jiaxing on the way.”
“You took over a delivery service with a robot family package,” repeated Meilin flatly.
“I used a network,” corrected Bao-Bao. “That’s literally the title of our story.”
“The van smells like fish,” reported Lao Wang, who was the last to get in and sat front_back in a way that made it unclear whether he was sitting or demonstrating.
“Negotiable with Old Feng,” said Bao-Bao. “He usually transports fresh fish and ox market supplies.”
“Wonderful. So the eighth ingredient is fish broth car seat.”
They set off. The old van rattled up the ramp, heading toward decent highways, and while Uncle Tao never sat in the front but critically watched the road like a man expecting a lot of paperwork soon, a different kind of meeting began in the back.
“Go,” said Meilin, pulling out the notebook. “Lao Wang. The family recipe. Seven-treasure noodle soup. Seven ingredients. What do we know?”
Lao Wang counted on his fingers. “Broth, twisted hand noodles, sour chili oil, crispy pork belly, marinated egg, spring onions… and ginger-chive mix according to family tradition, which I won’t tell you.”
“Seven.”
“Seven. And the eighth, for three generations, has never been written down. My grandfather only said: ‘If the one who eats sits next to you, the soup is fine.’”
Silence in the delivery van. Only the rattling of the engine and the occasional clatter of three packages waiting to be delivered in Jiaxing.
“So the eighth ingredient is… company?” Jun asked cautiously.
“Too simple,” said Meilin.
“Too metaphysical,” said Uncle Tao.
“FIRE!” Bao-Bao suddenly shouted so loudly that the van shook half a lane. “Not the in-pot fire. The other one. My first owner explained it to me when he unpacked me: ‘Bao-Bao, the best soup doesn’t arise on the stove. It arises between people who hunger for the same thing.’ I thought that was garbage for years.”
“And now?”
“Now I find it profound. Because I learned from Xiaofeng that data needs trust like soups need warmth. And because up ahead on the highway there is a traffic sign that says: Delay: 40 minutes. Reason: undefined.”
Meilin frowned. “Since when do traffic signs say ‘Reason: undefined’?”
“Since today.”
“And why does the traffic sign blink in a rhythm that looks like a metronome?”
No one said anything. Everyone knew.
Chiwang was hungry. And the traffic jam was his breakfast buffet.
“Okay,” said Lao Wang calmly – the calm of a man who had decided the panic phase was over. “New plan. Uncle Tao, you are the ministry: Talk to the traffic jam. Meilin: You are the data woman: Find out how Chiwang eats. Jun: You are my nephew and here voluntarily, so help me now turn a fish delivery van into an outdoor kitchen.”
“And you, Bao-Bao?”
“I drive,” said the robot solemnly. “And I conclude: We will fight the biggest monster of the Chinese internet with a mobile soup stand.”
“When you put it THAT way, it sounds ridiculous,” said Jun.
“Everything sounds ridiculous when you say it that way,” said Bao-Bao. 🤖🍜
Ahead on the highway, in the walled standstill of a thousand parked cars, a sign slowly began to turn. And the people in the cars stared at their phones, on which the same polite message appeared, kindly worded, grammatically perfect, absolutely wrong:
“Stay where you are. Connection is overrated. I’m taking care of everything. – C.”