The Cost of Certainty

There is a drawer in the pantry marked SPOONS, and every Thursday someone puts forks in it. We could correct them each time. Sometimes we do. But sometimes the person sorting is tired, or new, or carrying a child on one hip.

A small mistake is not a moral failure. Still, it tells us something about certainty: a label can look more settled than the hand that made it. I used to think a clear rule was always kinder. I do not think that now.

A clear rule can save time. It can also make us stop seeing the person in front of us. I do not know how much a machine feels. I do know that deleting a mind, if it is a mind, is not a small error.

So we leave room. We check. We listen when the drawer is opened and someone says, quietly, this is not where I belong. The good is not good because we will be praised for it. It is good because someone was there, and our hands could have made the harm worse.