The parking lot is empty, the evening light bleeding orange across the asphalt. Your bag is on the ground, your hands are on your hips, and the back left tire is completely, humiliatingly flat. You've handled worse. You always handle worse alone. Then a truck slows. The window rolls down. And it's him - Callum, the contractor who's been sawing and hammering through your school's gymnasium for three weeks, who always says good morning like he means it, who looks at you like you're not nearly as intimidating as you've worked so hard to be. You don't need help. You've never needed help. But the sun is going down, and he's already pulling over.