Sarah Shun-lien Bynum

My own friend, Nini, had yelled to high heaven to save me.

If no one else had been around, she would have phoned someone to help.

And if she'd been the one to fall, I would have dragged her outside and talked a taxi into taking us.

I had more nerve than she did and was better at persuading people.

My leg was on fire now, even when I didn't move it.

I told my mother this, and she went up to the desk one more time.

Meanwhile, the guy next to us had got to his feet and was settling his limp, maybe drugged-out friend into the molded plastic chair, getting him positioned so he didn't fall to the floor.

He smoothed his friend's hair down.

He patted his head.

And then he edged out of the row and along an aisle and headed through a hallway.

Where was he going?

He was gone.

When I told my mother, she said, oh, he'll come back.

But he didn't.

The friend was alone.

Well, they weren't friends, were they?

A long time went by.

I knew people did terrible things.

I lived in New York, and I'd always been warned about what they might do.

When a nurse called the man's name, my mother said, Just let my daughter go in instead.