That word hit harder than it should have.
Unstable.
As if kneeling beside someone in trouble was something strange. As if caring had to fit a certain appearance.
The woman’s head shifted slightly toward my voice. Her breath was faint.
I pressed two fingers to her wrist.
There it was. A weak pulse.
Relief flickered through me, though it felt fragile.
Then someone shouted, “Security!”
Footsteps approached quickly. Radios crackled.
And there I was, still kneeling on the tile, trying to stay calm while my heart raced.
Just a biker in a grocery store aisle, doing his best to keep a stranger alive.
“Sir, step back.”
The command cut sharply through the noise.
I looked up to see two store security guards pushing through the crowd. Their navy jackets and clipped radios gave them an air of authority.
“I’m helping her,” I said.
“She collapsed,” someone added from the crowd. “He grabbed her.”
Grabbed.
Not caught. Not supported.
Grabbed.
The difference in wording mattered.
“I didn’t grab—” I began, but stopped. Explaining suddenly felt pointless.
The older guard stepped closer. “Medical personnel will handle this.”
“She needs help right now.”
“They’re on the way. Step away.”
Around us people kept whispering.