12:00 noon
The Man in the White Shirt helped the cop lower another injured victim onto a plastic chair. They were inside a makeshift medical tent that had been set up just beyond the disaster zone. He and the cop had somehow become a team; this was the fifth person they’d carried over from West Broadway. The injured man tried to thank them, but a nurse told them to move so she could take the man’s vital signs and check his wounds.
The Man in the White Shirt stepped back to let her do her job. A voice on the cop’s radio cut through the static. The cop paused to listen, then ran back to the street and disappeared around a corner, headed south. She was gone before the Man in the White Shirt could say goodbye. Only then did he realize he didn’t even know the cop’s name.
The Man in the White Shirt stepped outside. Suddenly, he felt very, very alone. His hands began to tremble, and his legs started to quiver. He sat down heavily on the curb. At first, he thought that it was muscle fatigue from carrying all those injured people. He just needed a moment to rest.
Then his eyes started to burn. He blinked, and a warm tear rolled down his cheek.
What he needed wasn’t rest. He needed his family. He needed to go home.