He sees me.
He’s taking out his cell phone.
He’s dialing 911.
He’s walking over
He’s-
“Mom, I’m bringing over the bagels now.”
Bagels?

Don’t help me. Make your mother proud. Tell her that you let me die here just so you can bring her those bagels. I’ve been here for God knows how long. I’m filthy. I’m covered in blood. I can’t feel past my neck…am I paralyzed? Why won’t anyone help me?

The man with the bagels quickly crosses the street, taking no notice of Harveer Singh. Instead another man, a twenty year old on a scooter, stoops in front of Harveer, carefully analyzing the motionless creature before him.

What? You’ve never seen a man bleeding to his death before?

The man makes a curious face, then straightens up and circles around Harveer.

Vulture.

Like the previous passerby, the man on the scooter, reaches into his pocket and takes out his cell phone. Harveer follows him with desperate eyes and hope worth a penny. They hear a truck speeding down the boulevard, and the startled stranger drops his phone into a red puddle surrounding Harveer.

To his right, Harveer sees an image of a brown-skinned middle-aged man wearing a turban strewn across the middle of a Queens boulevard, his body bathed in blood and twisted in all the wrong directions.

That’s me? You see me like this and all you want to do is use your phone to take a photo? What’s wrong with you?

The twenty year old looks down horrified and disgusted, his cell phone drowning in a pool of someone else’s blood. The light changes green, and the man takes one last look at his phone before scootering away.

WAIT! WAIT! I’m sorry! You can’t leave me here! Divert the traffic at least! Two hit and runs and I’m a goner for sure!

A black SUV truck whizzes past Harveer, so close that he could feel its rush of wind across his face. A red Jeep swerves around him, and the taxi behind it brakes inches away only to drive off seconds later. Car after car, dart past Harveer, each time nearly hitting him.

Six. Seven. Eight cars. America drove off on me. To hell with this! Why am I still alive? I want this over with.

At that moment, the light turns red, and a group of fat high school students at the corner stampede to the scene. They gather around him, pointing, laughing, insulting.

“You get what you deserve!”
“You think you can just bomb our country and get away with it?”
“Go to hell you terrorist!”

Terrorist? I’m SIKH! Teenagers. Bunch of pathetic idiots. I was born and raised here for crying out loud! I don’t deserve this.

Harveer begins to see blue and red lights flashing down the boulevard. The teens run off as soon as they hear the cop car. The fattest one stops momentarily to spit on Harveer’s face. He catches up to the others with a grin on his face, ready to brag.

Harveer barely felt the intrusion though. It was as if his last few thoughts had consumed all his energy. His consciousness was fading. His body was going cold.

…This is it. I always thought I would die in a hospital. Not like this.

The police car pulled over. A news report later revealed that Harveer was pit stop to another call.