It might be a business investigation, or maybe an out-of-town order, but people like that are simply beyond our control—there’s not even time to train them. Jason Brooks glanced back at Evelyn Carter, smiling as he walked and said, “Don’t judge people subjectively. If you don’t believe me, go check the Forbes list—most successful businesspeople fit the criteria I just mentioned.”

Evelyn Carter let out a laugh, fully agreeing. Most outstanding graduates are only outstanding academically. Still, she had her doubts. As they reached the car, she smiled and countered, “But aren’t there even more people who fit your criteria, yet can’t afford three meals a day, can’t find a job, and have no way out?”

“Of course, laziness, living off parents, aiming high but achieving little—those might be personal issues. But if someone is willing to work hard and still can’t find a way out, then maybe it’s not a personal problem anymore. For example, if you have an eye for opportunity, you could sell water or boxed lunches outside the job market and still make as much as a white-collar worker, haha.” Jason Brooks opened the door, got into the car, and sighed, “Even the worst kids have something fresh about them, endless hope.”

“That’s true, Mr. Xie, what you said is great—like Li Taibai’s line, ‘Heaven gave me my talents for a purpose.’ I get what you mean now: you want to hire people who are willing to work hard.” Evelyn Carter started the car, habitually following her boss’s train of thought.

“Exactly, but that line about the worst kids wasn’t mine.” Jason Brooks turned back, grinning mischievously at Evelyn Carter as she reversed the car. “It was Romain Rolland. Don’t go flattering me for that.”

Evelyn Carter felt a bit embarrassed, her face flushing slightly. She pursed her lips, secretly complaining to herself—finally a chance to show off, but it didn’t seem to leave a deeper impression on Mr. Xie.

The car inched along, slowly squeezing out of the side road, leaving behind in the rearview mirror those students waving resumes, sweating as they queued up. With a head full of questions, Evelyn Carter drove on to the next job fair, repeating this unconventional recruitment process…

Chapter 02: Rootless Drifting

Ding… ding… the sound of a text message on the phone.

Beep… beep… the courier’s electric bike horn blared. He didn’t have time to check his phone, turning into the residential complex and weaving through the passage lined with small vendors, honking and shouting, “Excuse me… thank you… coming through…”

Some made way, some ignored him. The courier got anxious and shouted at the top of his lungs, “Hey, eggs are getting smashed here!”

That worked—the tricycle drivers quickly moved aside, and the courier’s electric bike darted into the complex like a fish.

Like every courier who earns eighty cents per delivery, this guy had a bowl-cut—this summer’s trendy style; a YTO vest—the standard courier uniform; a fully enclosed electric bike—hand-welded model. The only difference was that he was tanner and sturdier than most couriers, and his voice was even louder.

He approached the building in this complex where the gatehouse didn’t accept packages, found Building 22B, and was dumbfounded when he parked: a sign at the entrance read, “Elevator under maintenance, please use the stairs. We apologize for the inconvenience.”

Over a dozen floors. The young man got off, glanced at the huge cardboard box in his bike, pulled out his phone, found the number from just now, and dialed. As soon as it connected, he said, “Is this Zachary Harris? Oh, I’m the courier. Your gatehouse doesn’t sign for packages, and now the elevator’s broken.”

“No kidding. Are you delivering the package, or is the elevator delivering it? I don’t live that high, just the seventeenth floor.”

“Come on, bro, it’s scorching hot, and this box is huge. My bike isn’t even locked. How about… you come down and get it?”

“Yeah right, it’s hot for you but not for me?”

“Bro… come on, the security here isn’t great. If my bike gets stolen, what am I supposed to do?”

“I’m not interested in your bike. What are you negotiating with me for?”

“Hey, are you coming down or not? If you don’t, I’m not delivering.”

“If you don’t deliver, I won’t sign. I’ll file a complaint.”

“Huh? That tough… Don’t make me use my secret weapon.”

“Oh? Couriers have secret weapons!?”

The two argued over the phone. The courier wiped his sweat, looked up at the daunting building, raised his phone and shouted, “If you don’t come down, I’m going to yell… Zachary Harris on the seventeenth floor, your inflatable doll has arrived, come down and sign for it… Zachary Harris on the seventeenth floor, do you still want your inflatable doll or not…”

“Damn…”

The call ended. The courier grinned—this trick never failed and saved him a lot of effort. Sure enough, before long, a big, burly, panting man came running out, grabbed him, and glared with bulging eyes, about to explode. The courier, sweating profusely, put on a smile and quickly dodged, saying, “Bro, I’m really sorry, I’ve got an emergency. Look, my bike isn’t locked—I can’t afford to lose it… Sorry for the trouble, I’m bowing to apologize…”

He was sweet-talking, apologizing and bowing. The chubby guy finally swallowed his anger. Yeah, it’s hot—no one has it easy. While he was cooling off, the courier tore off the delivery slip and handed it over for a signature. The guy signed his name, but as soon as the courier took the slip, the man grabbed him warily, stared seriously, and asked, “You didn’t open my package, did you?”