It felt like a dream but when I looked at the car the next morning, I realised it hadn’t been.

All I could recall was that my car had flown off the road and a man in a turban stopped to help me. People who knew me had passed me by, and later criticised me, or called me to account for the sequence of events.
I had seen him each morning walking his daughter to school, carrying her scooter, watching her skip. Another friendly face.

But after three days without sleep, my hands lost my wheel as I was driving alone.

I felt so guilty and confused on many levels. Because of three days without rest, without reflection. Fortunately there was also neither media nor loss of life.

I had no way to find him, or thank him. I knew that my own community would have possibly held him hostage for assumed crimes within his community. Many wouldn’t, but there are some. I’ll remember not to tag them, because I couldn’t handle the messages coming back at me.
His face was so similar, so foreign and the story had been told centuries ago by my own leader.

Because of three days.

God Bless him.