I opened the door in a cucumber face mask and a robe that had lost its belt years ago. The driver looked at me the way people look at a raccoon in a kitchen, then said, very gently, "Delivery for the forest witch?" I laughed until I snorted. He held up a garlic knot pinched into a heart. "Peace offering to the coven." The next week's receipt said, "For the witch — extra marinara potion." I did not write that. The kitchen did. I have ordered from that place all month, always hoping for the same voice, always tipping as if the joke is still in the bag. Last Tuesday a new driver asked why the notes said the witch would be wearing a towel. I was wearing a towel. I had just dyed my hair the color of moss. Some stories knock on the door already written. I said thank you, closed the door, and ate standing up, smiling at a knot of bread like it had told me a secret.

Marisol · Texas, United States

The GPS dropped me at a grove of mango trees and a goat wearing a name badge that read Supervisor. A woman in a yellow raincoat met me with a clipboard and whispered that the package was a birthday surprise. I had to hide behind the banana plants until she rang a bicycle bell. I hid. A chicken sat on my shoe and refused to negotiate. The bell rang. I stepped out like a magician with a box of art supplies. Twelve children screamed as if I had arrived from the moon. The birthday child cried happy tears on the packing tape. Someone handed me a mango. The goat stamped my delivery slip with a muddy hoof and, I swear, looked proud. I still do not know who printed the badge. Best stop of my week. I keep the mango sticker on my dashboard. When the day gets heavy, I look at it and remember that the world is stranger than the route, and kinder too.

Kofi · Nairobi, Kenya

It rained for three Fridays, and three Fridays the same person brought my soup. The first week, a nod. The second, "You always order the lemon one when it storms." The third, a sprig of rosemary tucked into the fold of the bag. "For the weather." I said the soup was for one, then wished I had said anything else. They smiled like they had all night and none of it. "Then I will let you get back to it." I stood in the doorway longer than a doorway requires, rain ticking the awning, the bag warming my hands. The rosemary is drying in a cup on the sill. I still order the lemon soup when the sky goes silver. I have not asked a name. Some stories are better as steam on a window, a pause on a stoop, the almost of a sentence you do not finish. If they come a fourth Friday, I might say the cup has room for another sprig. I might not. The almost is doing just fine.

Anonymous · Lisbon, Portugal