fact

Author's name: Colin Hoover

I heard the crack of his skull before the spray of blood reached me. I gasped, then took a quick step back toward the sidewalk. My foot sank, and the heel of my shoe wouldn't keep up with me, so I grabbed onto the stake of the "No Parking" sign to avoid losing my balance. The man had been standing in front of me just seconds before. We were among a crowd of people waiting for the crossing light to flash when suddenly the man crossed the street prematurely, causing a speeding truck to hit him. I lunged forward to try and stop him, but I couldn't grab onto anything, and I saw him fall to the ground. I closed my eyes before his head was under the wheel, but I heard something pop like a champagne cork. The blame, all the blame, falls on this man, who was looking carelessly at his cell phone, perhaps because he had crossed that same street many times before without incident. Perhaps it was death by routine. People gasp like me, but no one screams or shouts. The driver of the offending truck jumps out of his wheel and immediately kneels in front of the lying man. I step back slightly as several people rush forward, wanting to help. I didn't need to look at the man lying under the wheel to know he hadn't survived. It was enough to look at my pristine white shirt—now stained with blood—to know that a stretcher would be of more use to him than an ambulance. I pace around, trying to get away from the accident—hoping to find a place to catch my breath—but the traffic light is now "Go," and the crowd is turning green, making it impossible to swim against the current and go back in this torrent of Manhattanites. Some of them don't even look up from their cell phones as they pass near the scene. I stop walking forward and wait for the crowd to thin out. I glance back at the truck, avoiding the view of the man lying there. The truck driver is now standing behind the back of his vehicle, glancing at a cell phone in his hands.