I carried the bag as far as the door.
The handles had cut a red line into my fingers. Inside, the room was small enough for me to see too much: a chair pulled close to the wall, a table with one cleared corner, a hook with nothing on it.
The other hand reached from inside.
I could have stepped over the threshold. I could have put the bag on the table, opened it, taken things out, found places for them.
That would still have looked like help.
Perhaps it would have been help.
But the room would have had to receive not only the bag, but my idea of where the bag belonged.
So I lowered it to the floor.
The other hand found the handles.
Mine opened.