SAYS FYL

On the day Roy was admitted to the ER, I saw her. Sitting in the sliver of shade outside the entrance. Heatwave warning, and it showed. Just her. Her and the heat.

She was on the phone and next to her was a carry-on and two small duffel bags. From my eavesdropping (I’m good at that), I gathered she was looking for a place to stay. Maybe it was a social worker on the other end.

What stood out, though, was this: she didn’t look like someone who lived on the street. Her hair was done, makeup carefully in place, shoes not worn out. Even the luggage was decent. She looked like someone who once had it all, and only recently found herself here.

Couple hours later, she was still there. Same bags. Same phone. Same heat. Her face flushed, but her willpower stitched into every wrinkle. I could see the battle wasn’t fair. And sure enough, the heat won. Twenty minutes later she was inside, this time as a “patient.” Medical bracelet, luggage, and what looked like relief at the gift of air-conditioning.

Later, I pieced the story together for Roy–my version of her. Senior citizen, abandoned by children, husband gone, reduced to homelessness and the need to pretend to be a patient–just for some comfort. (Yes, my imagination is a bit much sometimes.)

And that’s when it hit me. Why am I busy writing her story when I should be helping her instead?

So, saying goodbye to Roy, I went looking. I could do something–meal, ride, maybe money for a hotel. Something.

But she was gone.

The Samaritan in me had clocked in too late :(

Feature image generated by AI