We carried him through the miserable streets. His broken leg bleeding, his consciousness fading. We carried him to the overlit corner store. We begged and pleaded with the man behind the counter,
“Call 911, man. We got a real problem.”
“Get the fuck outta my store. Get the fuck out before I call the cops.”
“Yeah, man call the cops. Call the fucking cops.”
There’s a gun and we’re trying to get out the door. His leg is slammed against the metal frame and he screams right before he passes out. What we do? Where we go?
I don’t remember where we left him. He never came around again, I hope he was found by a concerned citizen, but I never heard. That night friendships ended. That night was the last time I ever asked for help from anybody.