Page 2 of These Cold Strangers

Have we become so inured to the pain of others? Do we just not want the responsibility? I read a story about something like this once, about some overseas locale, that if you call an ambulance to help someone and they die or can’t afford the bills, you would be held responsible. The story is already forming in my head:find that piece to source.

A trio of boys walks past, then circles back. One, darting glances up and down the street, plucks the portfolio from the man’s hands, and they run.

The video fast-forwards until a younger man in a puffer jacket, jeans, and sneakers halts. He looks warm. He looks scared. He looks horrified.

He drops to his knees at the old man’s side. Rips away the scarf to feel the man’s carotid for a pulse, then looks around in a panic. No one is nearby.

He rolls the man onto his back and begins chest compressions. He sits back on his heels. He speaks into his phone. He checks to see if the man is breathing. He removes his soft down coat and places it under the older man’s head, cradling him gently. He checks the pulse again. Resumeschest compressions. An unnatural wail and the young man’s head jerks up.

The ambulance skids to a halt, and the street is suddenly flooded with people. People who care what happens next.

The younger man removes the jacket from under the man’s head. Stands. Puts his hands in his pockets. Walks away. The video ends with a close-up freeze-frame on the Good Samaritan’s face at an angle. It is a good face. Rugged.

“No one knows who he is,” Stephanie chimes in, breaking the spell. “When the EMTs arrived, he walked away. Saved the man’s life too. Turns out the guy he helped is a famous photographer, Robert Clark? I looked him up. His work is gorgeous. Lots of black and whites.”

“So he lived?” I ask. “This stranger saved him?”

“So far. He’s in the hospital, in critical but stable condition. Isn’t it amazing? After all those people walked by and ignored him, this one man stopped. He’s a damn hero.”

“I know him,” I say softly. I stare at the small screen as if it might come to life without me hitting the play button.

Their voices in incredulous unison: “What? The man who almost died?”

“No. The Good Samaritan. I mean, I think I do. He looks like a guy I went to high school with.” I feel the blush creeping up my neck. “I maybe thought he was cute.”

“Wow, look at you getting all excited,” Stephanie teases, bumping my shoulder and taking back her phone. “Had a pretty big crush on him, did you?”

My cheeks are burning now. “Not a big crush. More like a small chagrin. He didn’t know I existed.”

“So you’re not having some torrid internet affair with him?”

“Yes, Steph, we’ve been having cybersex for months. He is my fated mate, and I’m going to run away with him. Now you can start planning our elopement.”

Steph glances back at the screen. “At least you’re getting somesomewhere.”

But it’s Leslie who’s staring at me intently.

“Look him up. Get the story. You said you needed something major if you want the paper to hire you full time. This is it. You land the story no one else can get, and you can write your ticket.”

CHAPTER THREE

Iwake at three o’clock in the morning, the cat walking up and down my body, begging for treats, meowing in those soft trills that indicate she’s hungry. Though there is always a full bowl of food on the table, she likes company when she eats. I carry her, purring away on my shoulder, to the kitchen, then set her in front of the bowl. She shoves in her face with a happy growl, and I sit, hard, on the window seat bench, dispirited.

I can’t let him go. Almost every night following the incident, I startle from the dream of that afternoon—the older man’s broken body, the streams of people, cold and aloof, passing by him as if he doesn’t exist. Stepping around and over a dying man with barely a glance down. They think he’s already dead. They think he’s homeless, worthless. What have we become, I wonder, if we won’t help a stranger in need?

Someone stopped,I remind myself.Someone helped.

Getting a story from a stranger is easier said than done, especially one who’s become an internet sensation overnight. I know the man’s name, though. He is not a stranger to me. Todd Preis. I’ve been looking for traces of him relentlessly. The alumni directory doesn’t list any personal information: no email, address, or phone number. I’ve searched the property records in DC, Maryland, and Virginia to no avail. Wherever he lives, his name isn’t on the deed. He has nocriminal record. I have hit a dead end before the story is underway.

But my dead end means everyone else trying to land an interview is also hitting a dead end. The paper has moved on; there are more important tales to tell. The window of opportunity is closing. But if I find Todd this week, I’ll have a chance.

The only thread to follow means going home. Something I’ve sworn I will never do.

I wrestle with this for a day, playing with the cat, making pesto, cleaning the bathroom, staring in the medicine cabinet. I haven’t had to take the pills for several months. I feel good. Healthy. Is it worth reopening the wounds I’ve spent a decade healing to get the story that could make a career for me?

I close the cabinet and start to pack.

Marchburg, Virginia, is a small town, a school town. The most well known, both through reputation and scandal, is the Goode School, an überelite private all-girls prep school. When the girls were on campus, the city’s population tripled. There was a very cute Main Street housing the coffee shops and boutiques that catered to the girls. But when the school burned down, the shops failed. The newly rebuilt Goode will open next year and hopefully breathe life into the area again. For now, it’s no different from any other isolated southern mountain town, dying a leisurely death as families move away for better opportunities and crime overtakes the remainder left behind.

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