I wasn’t supposed to be at that bus stop that day. Normally, I caught my usual ride across town, but I had missed it and ended up taking a longer route. That inconvenience placed me at the exact spot where I first noticed an older man struggling with several grocery bags. He moved carefully, but his steps carried the unsteady rhythm of someone trying not to lose balance. I almost offered to help. Almost.
Before I could, he stumbled. His groceries scattered into the street. A bottle of juice burst open, soaking the pavement, and he fell hard enough that the sound made my stomach turn. He groaned, embarrassed more than anything else, and instinctively reached for his cane that had rolled away.
What struck me more than the fall, though, were the reactions of the four teenagers standing just a few feet away. Instead of rushing to help, they laughed. Loudly. One girl bent double, slapping her knee. A boy pointed as if it were a comedy act. Their laughter echoed like cruelty amplified. The old man’s face flushed with humiliation, and yet not one of them stepped forward.
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