Last night I received an order. The note said: “Don’t knock—put the food on the ground. I’ll come out to get it.” I thought it was just another socially anxious young person, so I didn’t pay much attention. When I arrived, it was an old residential building, on the sixth floor, with no elevator. I set the food down at the door, took a photo, and was about to leave. The door suddenly opened. A little girl opened it—she looked about seven or eight years old, so thin she was like a bamboo pole. She said, “Uncle, could you help me bring the food inside? My mom can’t reach it with her hands.”