Ftrain, by Paul Ford

Up in front was a pack of bikes. I stayed back. I like to be 20 feet away from everything at all times. At the dangerous entrance under the Manhattan Bridge, coming off Jay St., a man in the pack fell sideways onto the concrete. Another cyclist helped him up and asked if he was all right; he said he was. His arm was shredded and bleeding. The helpful cyclist pushed off to leave the man with his wounds.

I passed by without looking at him. I didn't want to offend him with my sympathy. Across the street someone--when I looked I couldn't see who--began to yell, "He fell! He fell!" Laughing, loud. Fake, cruel.

The injured man began to yell back. "Fuck you," he said, pained. Then he got back onto his bike and rode on.