My training and studying kicks in. I can’t help running a mental assessment on him. He’s being treated for cancer, the bruising on his lower arms, the way he looks like s**t even in his fine linen pants and shirt. The hand gripping the cane shows some seriously brittle nail damage too and it’s trembling with the effort of staying upright.
“Sir?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Hi? Good morning,” I try again. Still nothing. He’s way too vacant, it’s making every inch of my trained-up brain tingle.
“Sir,” smiling and walking into his eyeline. “Do you have the time?”
“Oh!” he exclaims, startled. He must have been daydreaming, or on some heavy meds because he takes too many steps backwards. s**t. I lunge forward and hook my arms under his just in time. It’s sad how I can stop his fall. He hardly weig
