Noa's interview for a job as operations coordinator at Northline Delivery was at ten o'clock. She arrived at half past nine and found a man in a suit in the car park, kneeling beside a silver car with a flat tire. He was holding the jack upside down, with the confidence of a man who has never been told otherwise. "I am hopeless with cars," he said.
Noa's father had taught her to change a wheel when she was fifteen. "I have an interview at ten, so I'll be quick," she said, and rolled up her sleeves. But the wheel nuts were stuck, and she had to stand on the wrench. It took half an hour. The man asked her nothing. He only held a flashlight he did not need and said, at the end, "Good luck."
She scrubbed her hands with a tissue, but the black stayed, and at 10:05 she walked into reception five minutes late. The receptionist raised an eyebrow so slowly that it seemed to cost her an effort. In the room three people sat at a long table, looking stern, and a fourth chair was empty. Noa answered the first questions with her hands hidden under the table, and the interview slipped away from her like a bus.
Five minutes later the door opened, and the man from the car park came in. "Sorry I'm late," he said. "I had a flat tire, and a stranger helped me." He looked at Noa. "I have been interviewing you for half an hour already." He was Mr. Kessler, the director, and he told the astonished panel that he had a pile of perfect CVs but only one candidate who had stopped for a stranger on the morning that mattered most to her, and had not once looked at her watch.
She got the offer that afternoon, and the next morning a box arrived with a spare-tire kit and a card: "Welcome to Northline. For your next stranger."
