What happens
It's a quiet Monday before enrollment week, and a man in his fifties is standing at the counter with a clipboard, a pen, and a form that hasn't moved in about four minutes. He tells you easily that his supervisor sent him for the forklift course. It's the form itself he keeps having trouble with — he's filled in his name, then stopped, turned the clipboard toward the light as if that's the problem.
You don't know why he's stuck. It could be his eyes, it could be reading, it could be something else entirely. He hasn't asked for help, and nobody's waiting behind him, so there's no reason to rush him into an answer he hasn't offered.
Whatever you say next, you're choosing between naming the problem and finding a way around naming it. Priya notices the two of you bent over the same clipboard and offers to take the next student, which buys you time but also puts a second person in the room he's now watching. By the end, the form gets signed — including three dense paragraphs of a funding declaration he's agreeing to. You never learn for certain what the actual barrier was, and it isn't something you're owed an answer to.