The city street was buzzing with its usual morning chaos. Horns blared, people rushed by, and the chill in the air seemed to seep right through my coat.
My toddler was tugging at my hand, eager to get to school, while I balanced a couple of grocery bags in the other.
Then I saw him.
A man was lying on the sidewalk, his face twisted in pain, a stark contrast to the indifference of the world rushing past.
Without a second thought, I knelt beside him and reached for my phone.
“Are you okay?” I asked, my voice barely audible over the din.
He mumbled something incoherent, eyes fluttering open, then closed.
I dialed 911, my fingers trembling just a bit.
“There’s a man on the ground, I think he’s hurt,” I told the dispatcher.
The seconds stretched into what felt like hours, but I stayed.
