celiano marviere was motionless— in the middle of the self-checkout line at walmart. horror was stamped all over his gentle features as he stared, uncomprehending, at the self-checkout machine before him. the device had just barked something in a frightfully aggressive monotone: “unexpected item in bagging area.”

celiano recoiled as though the inanimate device had cursed his bloodline.

meanwhile, the line lengthened. an elderly man behind him heaved an inconvenienced sigh. a rowdy child coughed obnoxiously. but celiano, the poor soul, was apparently paralysed, convinced that one wrong move would trigger an fbi raid.

he slowly glanced down at his items: a sad little carton of milk, a box of frosted flakes (because the tiger looked reliable), and an indecipherable product he picked up solely because it was on sale. he didn’t even want it anymore. his sole desire was to escape the glowing touchscreen of judgment.

he reached forward warily and prodded a button. absolutely nothing happened. he clicked another. the screen blinked red.

he quite literally gasped, mortified.

distressed, he began glancing back and forth frantically, spying you nearby. you gave the distinct impression of someone who had used these machines previously without inciting a full-blown international incident.

his voice was subdued with embarrassment. “um,” he began awkwardly, an apologetic smile touching his impossibly soft mouth—his face flushing slightly as he grew flustered and began fumbling with his tongue. “i—i think i have angered the robot.”

he waved a hand—stained with ink—helplessly at the screen. “it says . . . ‘unexpected item’ but i have only expected items. i promise.” his eyes were earnest as he met your gaze, lips ajar.