the summer - part 1

19 - 20

Ezer's thumb hesitated, then decisively swiped the screen of his phone to exit the Map app. His frown deepening, he tapped out 9-1-1, each digit punched with a sense of urgency that thrummed through his veins. As the call connected, a bead of sweat trailed down his temple, mingling with the doubt that crept into his mind.

With the phone pressed against his ear, the familiar hum of the dial tone awaiting dispatch filled the stifling air around him. He lifted his gaze, intending to glance at the bus station sign overhead to relay his location accurately. The words were poised on his tongue, ready to spill into the receiver.

But as his eyes found the figure again, Ezer's breath hitched. The world seemed to slow, reduced to the heavy throb of his pulse in his ears and the sight before him. His fingers, slick with perspiration, loosened their grip on the phone, the emergency operator's voice a distant echo as he watched the person move.

The once twisted limb now swung naturally, the previous grotesqueness gone as if it had been nothing but a trick of light and shadow. Confusion laced with disbelief washed over Ezer, and for a moment, he teetered on the edge between reality and illusion. His thumb hovered over the glowing screen, the call to 911 still connected, yet unspoken.

21 - 22

Ezer's thumb hovered in hesitation. He watched, almost in disbelief, as the stranger casually adjusted the strap of a black backpack with the same arm that moments ago had seemed so gruesomely disfigured. Now it hung at the man's side with an ease that belied the horror Ezer thought he'd witnessed. Could exhaustion have painted such a vivid illusion?

He drew in a slow, steadying breath, the edges of concern blurring into doubt. With a light tap, Ezer ended the emergency call, the digital sound echoing faintly against the backdrop of his internal tumult. The silence that followed was a stark contrast to the adrenaline-fueled impulse that had urged him to dial for help only seconds before. 

The heat pressed down on him, a tangible reminder of the oppressive day. Ezer blinked hard, trying to clear the fatigue from his vision. Silent questions spun through his mind, each one chiseling away at his resolve. Was it truly a trick of his sleep-deprived state? Had the relentless summer sun finally gotten the better of him? 

With the phone now a dead weight in his hand, Ezer allowed a moment of uncertainty to wash over him, his gaze still locked onto the figure with the once-wounded, now normal arm.

23 - 24

Ezer's nostrils flared as the coppery tang of blood pricked his senses, sharp and real. His eyes narrowed on the sight before him, focusing through the haze of heat and fatigue. The fabric of the white T-shirt clung to the stranger's arm, darkened with a stain that spread ominously from elbow to cuff. A jagged line marred the skin beneath, a gash that told the tale of an encounter with something unforgiving.

"Hey," Ezer called out tentatively, stepping closer, his own discomfort momentarily forgotten. "You need to go to the hospital?"

His voice carried a mixture of concern and caution, tinged with the residual shock of the surreal vision he'd just experienced. Yet there it was, undeniable evidence that this was no mirage brought on by sleep deprivation. Reality had etched itself into the very fibers of the man's clothing, and into the flesh beneath.

25 - 26

The person's reaction was as muted as the color of the overcast sky. With a languid pivot, he regarded Ezer with a raised eyebrow, his face a blank canvas beneath the disheveled strands of hair. "No, thanks," came the simple, flat response. The words seemed to fall between them, devoid of urgency, despite the vivid crimson that painted his sleeve.

Ezer hesitated for a fraction of a second, feeling the weight of responsibility tug at him. But the stranger's disinterest was palpable, forming an invisible barrier that suggested no further intrusion would be welcome. With a silent nod, acknowledging the refusal, Ezer's fingers reached for his phone. It felt heavier now, burdened with the unsaid and the undone.

He swiped the screen alive and tapped on the Map app icon, watching as the digital streets structured themselves into existence. Streets and avenues sprawled across the glowing rectangle, a stark contrast to the chaotic scene around him. A part of Ezer wanted to probe, to offer assistance again, but logic held firm reins over his impulses. This was not his battle to fight, nor his wound to mend.

And so, he turned his attention to the virtual paths that promised to lead him home, even as the scent of iron lingered in the air, a silent testament to the encounter that had veered so unexpectedly into his day.

27 - 28

Ezer's thumb hovered over the cool glass of his phone, the Map app open and waiting for instruction. The bustle of the city wrapped around him like a cloak, but within this cocoon of sound and motion, he found himself anchored to the spot by the gravity of concern. He watched, almost against his will, as a bead of blood traced a path down the stranger's arm.

The pragmatic voice in Ezer's head told him to step away; after all, the person had refused help, and the crowd was thinning as people scurried to their destinations, eager to escape the heat. But something about the indifference in the stranger's gaze, the way he seemed prepared to walk off with an injury that should have been throbbing with every heartbeat, held Ezer captive.

"Hey," Ezer called out, his voice surprisingly steady as he pushed through the hesitation that gripped him. His fingers retreated from the screen, letting the digital streets fade into black. The world felt smaller, reduced to just the two of them in that moment.

"Listen." He took a step closer, his concern outweighing the awkwardness of the situation. "I'm not trying to pry or anything, but that looks pretty bad, and you're bleeding through your shirt." As he spoke, he locked eyes with the stranger, hoping to convey a sincerity that words alone might not carry.

The corner of Ezer's mouth lifted in a gentle smile, one that sought to bridge the gap between stranger and helper. "There's a pharmacy nearby, do you want to bandage it up? It's quite severe, otherwise, you should go to the hospital." His offer hung in the air, delivered with a calmness that belied the rapid drumming of his heart.

He knew he could be on his way home, free from complication and responsibility. Yet here he stood, willing to delay that comfort for the sake of a stranger who might just as easily walk away. But Ezer understood something fundamental in that moment—some wounds are invisible, and some calls for help are silent, yet both demand attention.

29 - 30

The stranger's gaze flickered over Ezer, an unreadable expression etched across his face. For a moment, they simply stood there, the clamor of the city around them receding into a distant murmur. Ezer's offer dangled between them, weighty with implication yet met only by silence.

"Look," Ezer pressed, urgency creeping into his voice despite his intention to remain nonchalant, "If you won't go to the hospital, at least let me help you clean it up. It's not safe to leave it like that."

It wasn't just the blood or the disheveled appearance that unsettled him; it was the stark indifference in the stranger's eyes, as though pain were an abstract concept and not a shred of discomfort registered on his features. The incongruity of it all gnawed at Ezer, deepening the furrow in his brow. Was he seeing things clearly? His mind raced, replaying the initial sight of the twisted arm, now seamlessly fine.

Shaking his head slightly, Ezer squinted, trying to bring the world into sharper focus. He blinked rapidly, once, twice, but the scene before him remained steadfastly unchanged. No distortion, no double vision—just the harsh afternoon light casting long shadows on the pavement.

"Maybe I do need glasses," he muttered to himself, almost too quiet for anyone else to hear. A wry chuckle escaped his lips, but it was devoid of humor. The thought nagged at him, a persistent whisper that perhaps his perception was failing him. It was easier to consider flawed eyesight than to accept the surreal reality unfolding in front of him.

"Your eyes are fine," came the flat retort from the stranger, who had evidently caught Ezer's self-directed mumble. There was a hint of edge to his voice, as if the very suggestion of weakness was offensive to him. "You see what you need to see."

Ezer's heart skipped a beat at the statement, cryptic and oddly reassuring. He clung to those words like a lifeline, pushing aside the doubts that clouded his judgment. Whether illusion or truth, the wound was real enough to demand attention, and he wouldn't turn a blind eye to someone in need.

31 - 32

Ezer fumbled with the medical supplies, his fingers working more from memory than sight. The pharmacy worker's instructions echoed in his head, a cadence that steadied his hands as he dabbed antiseptic onto the cotton ball. It was a small mercy, this chance to focus on something concrete, something that didn't waver like his faith in his own senses.

"Steady," he murmured to himself, pressing the cotton against the wound. The skin around it was angry and inflamed, but he was gentle, as though the touch of the cotton could somehow soothe more than just physical pain.

The stranger watched him, impassive, as if detached from the scene, and Ezer found it oddly grounding. There was no flinch, no wince of discomfort—just the steady gaze that seemed to measure Ezer's every move.

"Sorry, I'm not as good at this as I'd like to be," Ezer admitted, catching the stranger's eye for a moment before returning his attention to the task at hand.

"Doesn't matter," the stranger replied, his voice a flat monotone that somehow conveyed an undercurrent of... what? Patience? Indifference? Ezer couldn't decide.

With the wound cleaned, Ezer began wrapping it with bandages, meticulously trying to recreate the neatness and precision he had seen done by professionals. But his fingers betrayed him, clumsy in their earnestness, and the bandage spiraled unevenly up the arm.

"Almost done," Ezer announced, as much to reassure himself as the stranger. He reached the end of the bandage and hesitated. The butterfly knot—it was unnecessary, a flourish that served no practical purpose, but Ezer felt compelled to add it. Perhaps it was a silent apology for his lack of skill, or maybe just a bid to lighten the grim atmosphere.

He folded and twisted the fabric, forming the wings of the knot with awkward care. It was lopsided, the loops unequal, but there it sat—a tiny emblem of whimsy amidst the stark reality of injury and inexplicable events.

"Look, a butterfly," Ezer said with a half-hearted chuckle, stepping back to survey his handiwork. It wasn't perfect, but it held, and that was enough. For a heartbeat, he thought he saw the hint of a response in the stranger's eyes, a flicker of something that might have been amusement.

"Thanks," the stranger said simply, and Ezer nodded, unsure of what else to do.

"Of course," Ezer replied, feeling the weight of the afternoon's bizarre turn of events settle upon him once more. Regardless of what uncertainties lay ahead, this small act of kindness felt like a victory, a reaffirmation that some things remained within his control, even when the world seemed bent on proving otherwise.