The Four-Minute Bottleneck

I carefully rolled a neat nori cylinder around a cucumber strip at the prep counter, packed it into a takeout box, and boarded my little red toy pull-cart to make the rush delivery. The route looked clear until I hit the hallway carpet. A row of scattered plastic building blocks and stray shoes had completely blocked the corridor like deadlocked rush-hour traffic. I nudged my cart through the narrow gaps, but my wheels snagged on a thick wool fold. By the time I broke free and reached the doormat, my mental timer struck four whole minutes—one full minute late. My manager, Mr. Rex the towering plastic dinosaur by the umbrella stand, gave me a rigid, toothy glare and barked that one more late run would cost me my job. I had to issue an immediate courtesy voucher just to keep my record clean.