Walking around you see snippets of everyone’s life.
The man struggling with the ATM machine, who has heard the welcome message nine times and has steam rising from his ears.
The lady with the bright red hair and stark, elegant heels who didn’t hold the door open for her partner.
The poor lady in the beautiful, blue blouse stuck in an uncomfortable conversation about the prime age to go to the gym with a guy who clearly doesn’t go.
It’s so loud.
There are no stop signs to cross the street so you run.
Thank you to the driver in the Mitsubishi who let us cross.
The next car slows.
We take a step and then another.
“Run!” I say, calling back to my mother.
I don’t look back. I wish I had.