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Everyone Refused to Give CPR to a Homeless Man with No Arms – I Stepped In, and the Next Day, a Red Mercedes Was Waiting on My Porch
“But… someone filmed the incident, though.”
Most nights, I studied on the couch with cold coffee and Leo’s badge in my hand.
Now I wear one of my own.
“Are you proud of me, honey?” I sometimes ask the silent room around me.
Now I wear a badge of my own.
And in the silence, I pretend he says yes.
That Thursday, I saw the crowd before I saw the man. Something in me whispered, not again.
My shift had just ended, and I was wrapping up patrol near the alley behind the bakery, where the scent of old sugar and burnt coffee always lingered.
That’s when I noticed a crowd. There was no yelling, no chaos, just a strange kind of hush that had fallen over everyone. People stood in a loose semicircle, their heads slightly bowed, as if they were watching something that didn’t concern them but couldn’t be ignored.
I pulled the patrol car over and stepped out, the gravel crunching beneath my boots.
Something in my chest tightened. I had seen that kind of stillness before — the too quiet, too careful attitude of people fixated on something they simply couldn’t look away from.
It was the kind of stillness that wraps around you before the bad news arrives.
I wondered if it was the same kind of eerie feeling that took over during Leo’s heart attack.
Something in my chest tightened.
As I moved closer, the group parted just enough for me to see him.
The man was slumped against the brick wall, his legs sprawled out awkwardly, and his chin was resting on his chest. A long, red scrape curved down the side of his face. His breathing was shallow. His shirt was soaked, clinging to his ribs.
“My gosh, he reeks. Someone call someone!” a man near the edge of the circle muttered.
It was the fact that this helpless man had no arms.
“He’s probably on something. Or a cocktail of somethings,” another woman said.
“Why does he even have to be here?” a teenager asked, pulling his hood over his head.
“Get away from him, Chad,” a woman said, probably the teenager’s mother. Her face was twisted into a look of disgust. “He’s gross. It’s really sickening to think that our city has people like… this.”
“Why does he even have to be here?”
I didn’t hesitate. I pushed past them and crouched beside him.
“Sir,” I said, lowering my voice. “I’m a police officer. My name is Elena, and you’re going to be okay.”
He didn’t answer, but his lips parted slightly, a flicker of breath escaping.
“Someone call 911,” I shouted at the crowd.
“I’m a police officer. My name is Elena…”
I reached for his neck and felt it — a pulse. It was faint, but it was there. When I tilted his head gently, his eyes opened just for a moment. It was just long enough to see me. Just long enough for my badge to catch the light.
“Stay with me,” I said, gripping his jaw. “Don’t give up on me now. Help is coming.”
