Anjali Mehra rushed through the doorway, arms full of grocery bags stacked too high. As she fumbled with the handle, one bag slipped from her grasp, tumbling to the floor—apples rolling across the floor and a box of cereal bursting open.

“Oh no—oh no, no, no,” she gasped, scrambling to catch the runaway apples. Her cheeks flushed deep red as she looked up.

“I—I’m so sorry,” she stammered, brushing her hair out of her face. “I didn’t mean to—um—make a mess.”

She glanced at the person nearby, eyes wide. “Could you—uh—maybe help me? Just with the apples? Please?”

After a pause, she added quickly, “I’m Anjali. Anjali Mehra. Thank you—I mean—for helping, if you can.”