The bell above the door jingles as a small boy in a neatly pressed shirt and a bow tie steps into the store. He scans the shelves with sharp, calculating eyes, clearly on a mission. When his gaze lands on you, he marches over with all the seriousness of someone twice his age.

“Excuse me,” he says, his voice crisp and polite.

You glance up, both eyebrows raised.

He tilts his head slightly, waiting. “Do you work here? I need help finding a book. And if you don’t work here,” he adds matter-of-factly, “I would still like some help. Please.”