I was travelling down a dark highway late last night when, just as I reached the exit for the interstate, I saw a body lying in the middle of the road. “Jesus,” I muttered, pulling off to the shoulder. 

Steeling myself, I got out of my car and walked over to where the body lay. Another motorist who’d pulled over was standing over him. “Is he breathing?” I asked. 

“Yeah,” he said. “But he’s unconscious.” 

Watching cars barreling towards us at full speed, I waved them away, prepared to jump aside if they didn’t see us. At that hour of the night, I knew a lot of drunk drivers were out and about.

“We’re gonna have to move him,” I said. 

“I don’t want to,” the motorist said. “We might hurt him more.” 

I felt like saying it would all be academic if the victim was run over at 60 MPH but bit my tongue. So, I jogged back to my car and retrieved the powerful flashlight I keep in my glovebox. On my way back, a woman who’d stopped on a local road adjacent to the exit called out to me. “My brother’s a cop in this town,” she said. “I called him.” 

“Did you see what happened?” I asked. 

“No,” she said, “But I’ve been drinking, and I don’t want to be around when the police get here.” Like I said, lots of drunks were out and about.

Now standing over the victim, I noted he’d been knocked out of his shoes, his left leg bent at a funny angle, bleeding from his head, and holding a phone in his hand, its screen spider webbed with cracks. After waving my flashlight to warn other cars away, I cast its beam on the other motorist’s car, seeing if there was any damage. There was none. 

“Did you see what happened?” I asked him. 

“No,” he said. “It was a hit and run.” 

Kneeling down, I placed my fingers on the victim’s wrist to feel for a pulse. It was strong and steady. “He’s breathing and his heart’s beating,” I said. “That’s good.” Then the victim stirred and grasped my hand tightly. “Help is on the way,” I said. 

By now, several homeless people who’d been sheltering underneath the overpass had joined us. “Yo,” one of them said, “Somebody in a silver car just hit him and then took off. Sent him flying.” 

“It sounded like a bomb going off,” another said. Then the victim began to groan in pain. He was waking up. 

“Don’t move bro,” another homeless guy, said. “Don’t move.” Judging from the unwashed smell coming from the victim and the state of his clothes, I figured he was homeless too. Having done all I could do, I resumed station watching the oncoming traffic. Some people slowed to a crawl, gingerly scooting around us, while others blasted by at full speed. “They won’t even slow down,” the other motorist, said.

“Hey!” a passing driver yelled out his passenger window. “What’s going on?” Even from a distance I could smell the alcohol on his breath. 

“Move along,” I said sternly, waving my flashlight. “Move along.” 

Ten minutes later the state police arrived. Noting I was playing traffic cop, one of them asked if I was a police officer. “No,” I said. “Just stopped to help.” Then an ambulance and several other police cars arrived and sealed off the road. No longer needed, I put my flashlight in my pocket.

“Someone lose a cell phone?” an EMT asked, holding up a black phone much like mine. Patting my back pocket, I noticed mine wasn’t there. “Lemme see,” I said. But it wasn’t mine and, after asking around, it didn’t belong to anyone else. Giving it to a trooper I said, “This was found in the road.” 

“Who found it?” she asked. 

“That EMT,” I said, pointing. “Maybe the person who hit the guy got out of their car and dropped it before they took off.” 

“Thank you, sir.” 

By now the victim has been loaded onto a gurney. Luckily for him a Level II trauma center was only a few blocks away. Looking down at pavement, I saw there was a lot of blood and checked my hands to see if any had gotten on me. None I could see. 

“Do you need me for anything else?” I asked a trooper.

“Is that your silver car over there?” he asked. 

“Yes,” I said. “I just stopped to help. I didn’t see what happened.”

“You can go. Thank you for your assistance.” I was mildly surprised he didn’t inspect my car or ask for my ID.  I could’ve been the guy who plowed into the man. Walking back to our cars, the other motorist said. “I can’t believe no one else stopped to help us.” 

“If it was me lying in the road,” I said. “I hope someone would stop to help me.” 

“Well, thanks for pulling over.”

“No problem.” Then we shook hands and drove away. 

A few miles later, I felt my left leg quivering, which always happens after I experience an adrenaline dump. I’d been cool as a cucumber at the scene but now, as I put time and distance between it, my mind began to second guess my actions. “You could’ve been killed standing in the middle of that highway. You have a wife and daughter to think about.” Cursing under my breath, I knew I should’ve gone with my gut and pulled the man to the side of the road. 

When I got home, I made a beeline for the liquor cabinet, poured myself two fingers of Scotch, and downed it in one swallow. After rinsing the glass in the sink and washing my hands, I went upstairs to find my daughter sleeping next to my wife. Diverting to the guest room, I stripped off my clothes, dropped them on the floor, and lay down, pulling a warm blanket over me. It was cold. Staring at the ceiling, I wondered if sleep would come but, between the Scotch and post-adrenaline crash, I was soon very sleepy. Then, just as I was slipping through the twilight between waking and dreams, I felt that bloodied man’s hand grasping mine.