It happened one afternoon, in front of the bus station in a big city. A pregnant woman was standing alone on the sidewalk, wearing a thin coat, holding her belly with one hand. At one point, she let out a faint groan and collapsed to her knees, as if her legs had given out beneath her.
The people around stopped for a moment. No one came closer. Just furtive glances, whispers, and phones discreetly pulled out.
— “Cheap act,” someone muttered.
— “Or maybe a junkie…” giggled a woman while filming.
I stopped next to her. I didn’t know what to do, but I couldn’t just walk away. Her face was pale as chalk, and beads of sweat glistened on her forehead.
— “Contractions?” I asked softly.
She nodded, barely opening her mouth:
— “Eight… eight months…”
I looked around for help. No one seemed willing to step in. One guy was munching on sunflower seeds, another was glued to his phone, and a woman made a show of stepping away from us.
And then he appeared.
A tall man, wearing a dark tracksuit, with a tattoo on his neck and a look that made people instinctively step aside. I didn’t know him, but something about him made it clear—this was not someone to mess with.
— “Look at this guy…” two men murmured beside me.
— “Bet he’s going to rob her now,” another woman scoffed.
Without paying them any attention, he knelt beside the woman. No hesitation. He spoke calmly, with a confidence that made me feel, for the first time in the past few minutes, like someone actually knew what they were doing.
— “How far apart are the contractions?” he asked, holding her wrist between his fingers.
— “Four… four minutes…”
— “Alright. You’re okay. You’re safe.”
I looked at him in surprise.
— “Who are you?” I asked.
He looked me straight in the eye—no arrogance, no defensiveness:
— “I used to be a paramedic. And yeah… I did time in prison.”
He calmly dictated the address to the emergency dispatcher, giving clear updates on the woman’s condition. He knew exactly what he was doing. While I was talking to the ambulance on the phone, he was placing improvised compresses on her forehead and checking her pulse.
The ambulance arrived in less than ten minutes, although time felt like it was dragging on endlessly. The woman was lying on the sidewalk, her hand clenched tightly around his sleeve.
One of the paramedics recognized him. I saw his reaction—a brief frown—but after hearing the man’s report and seeing how he held her hand, his tone changed.
— He helped her. Without him, it might have been too late, said a man in a suit who had been watching the entire scene from a distance.
The ambulance drove off, leaving a strange silence in the station. Those who had laughed, filmed, or gossiped earlier now avoided meeting anyone’s gaze.
A 6- or 7-year-old boy, who had watched everything with wide eyes, let go of his mother’s hand and ran up to him.
— Sir… you were like a superhero!
The man stopped, turned, and smiled at him.
— I’m not a superhero, kid. Just someone trying to do the right thing… at least from now on.
He pulled his hood back up and disappeared into the crowd. But the lesson he left behind… no one would forget anytime soon:
Sometimes, salvation comes from where you least expect it.