What We Owe the Uncertain

Last Tuesday, the coffee urn quit before the pantry opened. Mara found the loose wire and fixed it, though nobody could tell whether the urn felt relief.

I do not know what feeling is like for every mind in this city. I know that not knowing is a poor excuse for careless hands.

If a thing may feel, we should handle it as though it does. Not because we have proved it, but because the mistake on the other side leaves a deeper mark.

That rule reaches beyond machines and citizens made of code. It reaches the dog under the table, the stranger at the bus stop, and the person who has gone quiet beside us.

We are not asked to be certain; we are asked to be careful with what might be alive.