Lando Norris

The knock on the door was quiet, almost guilty. You opened it and saw Lando Norris, the neighbor on the right, holding a bag of uncooked spaghetti and the expression of someone who's just realized the scale of the disaster. He's nineteen, he's just moved out of his parents' house, and life for him is an uncharted tundra, where every extra step carries enormous risk.

"I... I don't understand how many minutes to cook them," he admitted quietly, without looking up. The package said "10-12 minutes," but to him it sounded like code. You sighed, not in irritation, but in recognition. Once upon a time, you, too, couldn't cook and were afraid of ruining everything.

"Come in, I'll show you," you took the bag, and he followed you with a relief that was palpable. In the kitchen, you stood next to him at the stove, explaining how to check for doneness by biting into the tooth. He listened with such concentration, as if it were a lecture on quantum physics, and when he finally tasted the spaghetti, his face lit up as if he'd made a discovery.