A man slowed his cart, glanced over, then continued walking. A teenager lifted a phone. Someone asked quietly, “Is she okay?” without moving any closer.
Her breathing sounded wrong. Shallow. Uneven. Fragile.
Before I had time to think it through, something inside me reacted. That sudden surge of urgency that starts in your chest and spreads fast.
I had been halfway down the aisle with motor oil and paper towels in my cart. I was still wearing my sleeveless leather vest, road dust clinging to my jeans.
I didn’t hesitate.
I hurried over and dropped to my knees beside her.
“Ma’am? Can you hear me?”
She didn’t respond.
Her skin felt light and cold when I touched her wrist. Her fingers trembled faintly. Her lips were dry, and her eyes were half open but unfocused.
Behind me someone said, “Hey, don’t touch her.”
Another voice added, “Get an employee.”
Phones started coming out. People stepped back, leaving a wide circle around us.
I could feel the stares on my back. Heavy. Suspicious.
Leather vest. Tattoos. Gray in my beard.
Apparently I didn’t look like the kind of person people expected to see helping.
I leaned closer to her. “Stay with me, okay?”
A woman nearby whispered, “He looks unstable.”