Marcus slowed down. He watched the old man try again, watched him get the board halfway up, watched it slip, catch, and drag him forward a step until he had to plant a hand on the side of the truck just to stay upright. And Marcus felt the pull, the tired man's pull. Keep driving. It's not your problem.
You've got your own. Your daughter's waiting. Your back is done. Somebody else will stop. He looked in his rearview mirror.
There were two other cars behind him. One went around. The other slowed, looked, and drove on. Nobody stopped. That was the moment right there.
The moment that most people never even notice they're living through because it lasts less than the time it takes to blink. The moment where a man decides who he is. And then the old man went down on one knee. Marcus didn't think. His foot was already off the gas and onto the brake hard.
The truck skidding to the shoulder in a spray of gravel. He was out the door before it stopped rocking, jogging across the road, calling out ahead of himself, "Sir. Hey, sir. Hold on." He got there just as the old man was trying to push himself back up. One hand on the truck, one hand in the dirt, his face flushed and his breath coming in short pulls.
"Easy, easy," Marcus said, crouching down beside him, one hand going to the old man's shoulder to steady him. "I got you. Just take a second. Don't rush it." "I'm fine," the old man said in the automatic way that men of a certain generation always say they're fine.
"I just lost my balance." "Uh-huh." Marcus kept a hand on him. "Look at me a second. You dizzy? You feel your heart doing anything funny?"
"I feel my pride doing something funny," the old man muttered. "That count?" Marcus let out a short laugh, surprised. "That one I can't fix, unfortunately." The old man looked him, then really looked at him, and something in his expression shifted, the weary politeness giving way to something closer to relief.
He let Marcus help him back to his feet one slow inch at a time until he was standing again, leaning against the tailgate, catching his breath. "There you go," Marcus said. "You're all right. Just went a little too hard, that's all." "That seems to be a recurring problem lately."
The old man wiped his palm on his slacks and straightened his shirt, trying to reclaim some dignity. "You really didn't have to stop." "Yeah, well." Marcus glanced at the boards still hanging off the truck. "Your truck disagrees."
The old man blinked. Then, despite himself, he laughed, a real one from the chest. And just like that, something eased between them. "Harold," the old man said, and put out his hand. "Harold Bennett."