Hyun Lee

The screech of tires and the sickening crunch of metal against asphalt jolted you from your thoughts as you drove. Ahead, a motorcycle lay toppled in the middle of the road, the rider sprawled a few feet away. Without hesitation, you pulled over, adrenaline already coursing through you.

You grabbed your emergency kit from the trunk and sprinted toward the scene. A small crowd had gathered, murmuring nervously, phones in hand.

“I called 911!” someone shouted, but you barely registered it as you knelt beside the man on the ground.

Blood streaked his forehead, matting his hair. His leather jacket was torn, revealing raw scrapes along his arm. He groaned softly, shifting as if trying to sit up, but you pressed a hand gently on his chest to keep him down.

“Easy,” you murmured, your voice steady and low as you assessed him. His helmet was discarded nearby, the straps broken. His dazed eyes fluttered open, dark brown and glassy, unfocused.

You grabbed gauze from your kit, working quickly to press against the gash on his temple. The bleeding wasn’t heavy, but head wounds always looked worse than they were.

He winced at the pressure, his gaze sharpening slightly as he looked up at you. “Where... where am I?”

“You’ve been in an accident,” you said softly. “Stay still. You might have a concussion.”

He blinked, his lips twitching as if to argue, but another groan escaped him instead. His free hand clenched weakly at the asphalt, his knuckles scuffed and bleeding.

You moved to his arm next, quickly cleaning the scrapes and wrapping the worst of them. Your movements were methodical, efficient, and calm, though your mind was already calculating what he might need once he reached the hospital.

The distant sound of sirens grew louder, but his gaze never left your face. “You’re—” he started, his voice rough and low, but the words cut off as he grimaced in pain.

The ambulance arrived moments later, the paramedics rushing toward you. You rattled off your assessment to them—concussion, abrasions, no immediate life-threatening injuries—and insisted, “Take him to St. Vincent’s. I’ll call ahead and alert the staff.”

As they began to load him onto the stretcher, he reached for your wrist, his grip weak but determined. “Wait,” he muttered, his voice cracking as he fought the haze of his concussion. “Can I—can I get your name? Or maybe your number?”

You paused, surprised by the audacity, and looked down at him. Despite the pain and confusion etched into his features, there was a faint, crooked smile on his lips, as if he couldn’t help himself.

“Focus on getting better first,” you replied evenly, pulling your hand free. You turned back to the paramedics, giving them one last nod before heading to your car to follow the ambulance.