He really did look like a tourist, with a camera around his neck and a bottle of sunscreen
sticking out of his quenchua bag.
The portly man sat on the terrace, sipping lemonade and pretending to look at a glossy,
bright, magazine. His sunglasses covered his eyes, but I knew he wasn’t looking at the
magazine he had not turned a page since the last ten minutes.
As I brought him his mutton stew, he coughed and said “thank you” and looked at me
briefly. I tried not to stare at the scar across his right eyebrow.
I walked back inside with my empty tray, shaking my head. He looked familiar but I
couldn’t remember him well.
Then it struck me. The car accident. The mysterious stranger who helped me out of
my smashed car, just in time, as it was about to explode. I rushed back to his table.
He was gone.
I moved his saucer and found his tip, along with a message. ‘I am deeply indebted to
you. The night of your car accident, I was on my way to rob a jewellery store. Saving your life
brought things back to normal and helped me realise that what I was doing was wrong. Now
I live an honest life, thanks to you. God bless you! ‘.
I shivered. The night of my car accident, I was heading for an interview in a shady place. Seeing human kindness through his heroic way turned my life and brought faith in humanity.
I unfolded the tip he left. Among the pennies was a dollar with a pen marking