10:24 a.m.
The Man in the White Shirt turned a corner and saw a female police officer helping an injured man in a suit limp down the street. The police officer had lost her hat; her pants leg was dusty and torn. The businessman was in worse shape: he had no shoes; one foot was covered in blood; he couldn’t put pressure on his ankle and held onto the cop’s shoulder like a crutch.
The Man in the White Shirt angled towards them. He started to speak. At first, all that came out was a hoarse croak, and then he was choking, coughing, hacking the gritty gray dust out of his throat and lungs. The cop looked impatient; the last thing she needed was another invalid on her hands.
Finally, the coughing stopped, and he croaked out a question.
“Can I help?”
The cop threw him a look. “You up for it?”
The Man in the White Shirt nodded and got on the other side. He and the cop linked hands and made a cradle. The injured man put his arms around their shoulders and lowered himself into the basket they had made with their arms. Then they lifted him off his feet and carried him down the street, three people moving as one.