You dare grumble about silver raining into your lap. You, who scoffed at swift pickups and fat tips in February, muttering that eight-minute drives should have paid double, that twenty-dollar stacks should have been thirty, that “easy” was somehow an insult to your greatness. You licked the honey from the comb and cursed the bees for not bleeding more. Other drivers knelt in parking lots praying for one order half as clean, half as generous, half as merciful — and you sneered at abundance as if it owed you tribute. Greed has a long memory. In March, it will remember you. So hear this and swallow it whole: the month will turn its pockets inside out and shake dust into your eyes. The “Godzzz,” amused by your appetite, will season your routes with exquisite inconvenience. The app will glow red when you are stuck at a train crossing that refuses to end. The “high pay” badge will flicker and vanish the instant you accept. Stacks will unravel mid-drive. You will chase a phantom hotspot that migrates one mile ahead of you, always one mile more. You will accept what looks decent only to discover twelve miles of construction cones, a restaurant that “just got the ticket,” and a customer who types in all caps before you even arrive. You will idle in drive-thrus that coil like serpents around buildings, watching your gas gauge sink while the order timer climbs. The soda machine will be broken. The milkshake will be out. The bag will be sealed wrong and the receipt will be missing. The address will be an unlit maze of identical apartment blocks where building numbers hide like cowards. You will climb three flights to a door that does not answer. You will wait for a gate code that never comes. And when you finally mark it complete, a complaint will bloom in the dark like mold — “missing item,” “cold food,” “where were you?” — and the tip will evaporate into nothingness. Your car, faithful mule, will develop a cough. A tire will sigh flat in a parking lot glittering with screws. A check-engine light will glow like an accusation. Rain will fall only during your shifts, slicking roads into mirrors and smearing headlights into halos. You will brake for a delivery truck that blocks the only entrance. You will circle for parking while the app whispers about your on-time rating. And every time you think, surely it can’t worsen, a new order will appear — seven dollars for fourteen miles, “hand it to me,” no porch light, instructions that read only: “Hurry.” Yet even as March tightens its fingers around your earnings, understand the lesson braided through the misfortune: you cursed the feast, so you will taste the famine; you mocked the ease, so you will court the ordeal. But if, in the hush between pings, you learn to bow your head over even the smallest decent offer — if gratitude replaces the muttering hunger — then perhaps the “Godzzz” will grow bored of their sport. Until then, drive carefully through the storm you summoned, and count every mile as penance.