You see the man’s eyes widen as you pull the money out. You thought they’d be twenties, a couple of hundred dollars, max. They’re hundreds. You’ve got a thousand dollars in your pocket.
The man grabs your arm. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll get you help.”
You get a sudden sharp instinct to fight. Elbow to the nose, grab his wrist, turn, press your shoulder under his ribs, bend—he’d flip over onto his back. Then all it would take would be a boot pressed against his throat . . .
You pull away from him. There’s a pressure building in your head, right behind your eyes.
“No, I’m alright, thanks.”
“I insist. We need to get you help.” The arm that isn’t on your elbow wraps around your waist. The pressure in your forehead grows. You smell roses. What do you do?