Houston. The boy was at a park. A sophomore. He was doing his homework, watching his 5-year-old little sister play on the monkey bars.
She yelled at her brother, “Hey! Look at me!”
She fell from the bars onto her head. Blood was everywhere She was unconscious. The young man panicked.
You’re supposed to be a dutiful big brother. You’re supposed to know what to do. But sometimes you panic.
A man in a janitor uniform came from out of nowhere. He saw the child on the ground. He saw the blood.
The custodian spoke limited English. He scooped up the girl in his arms.
“Don’t worry, leetle girl, it’s gonna be okay.”
Don’t worry? Who was this guy?
Well, whoever he was, he wandered into traffic, flagging for cars to pull over.
None did.
He tells the sophomore kid that he is a runner. A competitive runner. He runs every day. His father was a runner. His brothers are competitive runners. He has completed multiple marathons. A few ultras.
So takes the girl in his grasp. He runs to the
local hospital. With a 40-pound kid in his arms.
When he arrived in the ER, the nurses asked whether he was all right. He was covered in perspiration. Breathing heavily. All he could say was “Help this leetle girl, help this leetle girl.”
They did.
Birmingham. It was raining, and the college girl was stuck in traffic. She had to go to the bathroom, badly. And Highway 280 traffic is not accommodating bladders that are about to redline. It was a jam. Miles of bumpers. Standstill gridlock.
So the woman pulled off at the gas station. She jogged inside, clutching her urethral region.
There was an old man seated out front, he was asking for change. She avoided him on the way in, but couldn’t avoid him on the way out.
He hit her up for cash.
She had…