The subway musician’s guitar case held a few dollar bills, but it was the man beside him with the military tattoo that stopped me cold. “David?” My voice cracked saying the name I hadn’t spoken in thirty years – since the night he found me hypothermic in the woods.
The once-strong man who’d carried me to safety now struggled to stand. Over coffee, he shared how PTSD and addiction had stolen everything after his Army discharge. When he mentioned his terminal diagnosis, I insisted on fulfilling his last wish – to see the ocean again.
But a teenage gunshot victim needed me in OR. By the time I raced back to David’s room, the coroner was there. “He went peacefully,” they said, “left you this note.”
The folded paper held two words: “Save others.” Now I do – in his memory and mine, because one act of kindness can ripple across decades.
