Why would she care whether I had opened them unless the contents were dangerous, unless opening one exposed me to something?

My mind heard the anxious concern of a criminal worried her product had been disturbed.

What I was actually hearing, of course, was the anxious concern of a fastidious baker who knew exactly how far finely milled heritage flour travels the instant you break the seal, and who was picturing, with real horror, a fine dusting of her precious twenty-dollar-a-bag einkorn settling over my guest room rug, my curtains, my future desk.

Her relief when I said no, I have not opened them, was not the relief of a criminal whose secret is safe.