I slowed without meaning to.
My phone vibrated again in my pocket.
Final warning.
I stared at the screen for three long seconds, and in those seconds I saw my mother at the kitchen table pretending not to notice the stack of red envelopes. I saw my brother counting pills, trying to make them last longer than prescribed. I saw the eviction notice taped to our door last winter.
Then I saw the boy’s chest barely move.
I dropped my bike.
The water in the gutter was icy and filthy, soaking through my jeans as I knelt beside him. His skin was frighteningly cold. His pulse weak, but there. His lips tinged blue from hypothermia.
“Hey. Stay with me. Come on.”
He didn’t respond.
I slid my arms under him and heaved him onto my back. He was heavier than he looked, dead weight pressing against my spine. My legs trembled as I stood, but I didn’t let go. The nearest hospital was three blocks west. Normally, three blocks meant nothing.
