The package arrives in ninety minutes and the delivery is free, which is the first thing worth doubting. Nothing about it is free. The cost has simply been moved somewhere less visible. Part of it sits in the price of the product, obviously. But a larger part sits in the warehouse, where the route between shelves has been optimised to the second, and a worker walks fifteen kilometres in a shift without ever choosing where to go next. The algorithm chooses. The worker follows. Part of it sits in the driver, who is technically self-employed, which means the vehicle, the fuel, the insurance and the risk belong to him, while the schedule belongs to the company. And part of it sits in a return rate that would have destroyed any retailer twenty years ago. When returning something is effortless, people order three sizes and keep one. The other two travel back across the country, are inspected, and frequently destroyed, because processing them costs more than the goods are worth. None of this is hidden, exactly. It is simply not on the invoice. What makes it interesting is that the convenience is real. It is not a trick. Ninety-minute delivery genuinely helps a parent with a sick child, a person without a car, someone working two jobs. The honest position is uncomfortable: a service can be simultaneously valuable and built on conditions you would not accept for yourself. Most of modern consumption sits in that gap, and most of us have decided not to look at it too closely, which is itself a choice, made daily, in ninety-minute instalments.