He guided me to sit on the curb, shrugged off his heavy jacket, and draped it over my shoulders without asking. Then he pulled out his phone and began making calls, first to the police, then to hospital security, explaining clearly what had happened and where.
Only after help was on the way did he introduce himself. His name was Thomas Keller, and the police later estimated his age to be in his late fifties. He wore a leather vest covered in old patches, his hands bore scars from years of physical labor, and his beard was streaked with gray. He looked like the sort of man my parents would have warned me about when I was younger, yet there was nothing threatening in the way he stood beside me.
He stayed.
He stayed through the police interview, answering every question patiently. He stayed while I was escorted inside for an examination. He stayed during the long hours it took for a friend to finish her shift and come get me.
“You really do not have to wait,” I told him more than once, feeling guilty that he was sacrificing his time for someone he had never met before.
“I know,” he replied each time, and he remained exactly where he was.