I froze at first, but then something pushed me forward. One girl smirked, expecting me to join in. Instead, I said sharply, “Pick it up.” The laughter died. A boy sneered, “What did you say?” I stepped closer. “Pick. Up. His. Groceries.” The old man stared between us, eyes wide. Silence hung heavy until, one by one, the teens bent down and gathered every can and bruised apple back into his bag.
I knelt beside him and offered my hand. “You okay, sir?” His palm trembled as he whispered, “Thank you.” The bus pulled up, and the teens ducked inside, their bravado gone. I stayed, helping the man to his feet. His knees were scraped, his shirt torn, but he managed a small smile. Then, to my surprise, he pressed a folded envelope into my hand. “Take this,” he said firmly, before boarding.
