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Interacting with: [@Feisty-Pants]
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Fried rice filled the interior of the delivery car, the seats of which bore torn leather and had entrenched inside them an unforgiving stench  of alcohol and baby wipes. Price didn't drink, Mr. Lin's cars hadn't been renovated since 1991. Terell would make his deliveries with the aid of the public bus system if it meant Mr. Lin wouldn't fire him for it. As he pulled up on the curb and shut off the car's engine, he stared out of he window to the purported destination of his delivery. Something wasn't right.

"A church?" He took a look around. He saw few vehicles in the parking lot and nowhere did he see a picnic table of any sort. 

"Don't look like a picnic or nothin'. Is it even legal to eat inside the church house?" Terell could have sworn it was.

He unbuckled himself and got out, his clothes wreaked of the car's musky stench; or perhaps it was his general odor. No matter how many showers Terell took, he never seemed to rid himself of the smell of grease and deep fried sweet and sour chicken. He put his keys in his pocket and flung open the backdoor--he should have been paying attention to traffic; he had a nigh-collision with a car. He felt the car rock subtle beneath him as the vehicle whizzed by mere inches from his body. Livid, he screamed,

"WATCH WHERE THE #*$! YOU'RE GOING!" his right arm extended at the car's back side as if he were going to channel the rage of his tirade into an unbridled energy beam. There were mumbles about stupid drivers and incompetent DMV workers. He grabbed the folded lip of the brown delivery bag and hoisted it up within the clasp of a few fingers. The bag's bottom was soiled with grease. Terell slammed the car's back door shut and made his way across the street.

As he approached the church's exterior, he was compelled to admire it. The last time he was in church was Easter. How many years ago this Easter was escaped him, though part of him always wanted to get back into going to church again. He always did like the hymns. Everything about these old churches was so different, from the architecture to the stoops, they reminded him of his mother's large hats and his father's two-tone suits. He hardly remembered much from the sermons as a kid, but he did recall everyone being dressed well.

He knocked on the door with his free hand, unsure of who would greet his request if anyone at all. He rocked back and forth on his heels as he waited, and took time to adjust the name tag pinned to his left breast which read, "Mr. Lin's Wok; Terell" ascribed in lettering appropriate only for a fourth grader.