January 22

The shock makes me step back, step forward, raise my foot to step somewhere else but place it down slowly.

A young boy in a white vest is climbing out of a first floor window. He is unsure, teasing the air with his left leg. One more step and he will be out of the window and onto the tiny ledge, too thin even for his small foot. He could slip any second and tumble down.

I don’t do what to do. Part of me wants to walk on – it’s none of my business. But I can’t leave this boy. If he falls, I will be haunted by the words, I could have done something.

I stare at the boy. He sees me, smiles awkwardly and pulls his foot in. The foot reappears at the edge of the window, though he looks down at me. I keep staring up and he pulls his leg in, but he’s still holding onto the window. He could still fall.

I take sudden action. I go to the door and ring the bell. No sound. Probably doesn’t work. The painting on the walls is chipped, the garden tangled, the curtains drawn. I ring the bell again. No sound. I knock on the door and imagine somebody answering. I picture a hassled mother, smoking, talking quickly, demanding what I’m doing.

“I’m a teacher,” I imagine myself beginning as an explanation, a justification. “Your boy is trying to climb out of the upstairs window. Just thought I should say.” I imagine she will not be appreciative.

“Like, what the hell's it do with you?” I imagine myself arguing back. Maybe even calling the police. None of this happens. No one answers.

I step back. An adult arm yanks the boy back and closes the window. I move quickly away. At least he is safe now.

Well, not in as much immediate danger.