A nurse tried to help the old man stand, but he winced in pain. The chart she was holding slipped from her hands, papers scattering across the floor.
People watched.
Some looked sympathetic.
Some looked relieved it wasn’t happening to them.
Most simply looked away.
That was when I stepped forward.
I probably looked like the last person anyone expected to help. I wore a black sleeveless leather vest, worn boots, and my arms were covered in tattoos. My motorcycle helmet rested under my arm. The kind of appearance that often makes people assume trouble before hearing a single word.
“Easy,” I said gently.
I crouched beside the old man, slid one arm behind his back and the other beneath his knees, and lifted him carefully. He weighed almost nothing. Far lighter than he should have.
“Sir, you can’t—” the clerk started.
But I was already standing.
Security noticed too late.
The old man looked up at me, his cloudy eyes searching my face.
“Do I know you?” he whispered.
“Yeah,” I said quietly. “You do.”
Gasps followed us as I started walking across the lobby.
Phones came out.
People began recording.
“Is he taking that patient?”
“Someone call security!”
“That can’t be legal!”
Maybe it wasn’t.