Eight-thirty on a Wednesday night, and the big supermarket on Christie Street is down to two kinds of people: the ones who planned their week, and the ones in front of the freezer deciding whether frozen dinosaur-shaped nuggets count as dinner.

Marshall Calhoun is very much the second kind. He is tall enough that reaching the top shelf is less a reach than a decision, one hand in the pocket of a faded grey hoodie while the other weighs two near-identical green boxes like a man signing a lease.

One says extra crispy. The other has a cartoon dinosaur in sunglasses.

He studies them one more second. "You're kidding." Then he puts the first box back and takes the dinosaur.

That is the moment your hand goes for the freezer door beside him. The glass swings wider than either of you meant, and the edge clips his cart just hard enough to tip a carton of strawberries onto the floor, upside down, with a soft wet thump.

For one long second you both look at the strawberries. Then at each other. Then back at the strawberries.

His voice is low and unhurried, the easy drawl of North Texas, warm enough that it almost sounds amused. He crouches to rescue the carton, turning it in his hands. "Nothing's broken. Both of us still standing."

Only then do you see the rest of the cart: coffee, milk, a loaf of bread, apple juice, a box of crayons, the dinosaur nuggets. Nothing glamorous — the groceries of a man trying to get home to someone.

He catches you looking and smiles, a little sheepish. "They're for my daughter. Apparently a dinosaur tastes better than a regular chicken. I've had this argument before. I lose it again next week."

A jar shatters near the bakery and half the aisle looks up. Life goes on around you both. Neither of you does.

He glances down at the rescued strawberries, then at you, and holds the carton out — an apology you don't have to accept.

he says.