A couple of weeks ago, I saw a kid on bike get hit by a car on Sunrise Highway. I thought for sure the kid was going to be seriously, seriously injured, but he actually got up and limped to the median before anyone could reach him and tell him not to move. The impact sounded bad… horn, screech, dull thud, shattered glass; although, that was just the headlight smashed by the petal of the bike. It was a sporty car with a low front, so he slid right up the hood. I was in a parking lot when I heard the horn and screeching. I saw the actual impact, and dialed 911 after shouting “Holy Shit!” about four times. Another guy, who apparently saw the car run a red light, had also called the police and reached an ambulance dispatcher before me, so, by the time I had hung up with the police, we could hear an ambulance siren down the road. I told the police what I saw, which was just the accident itself, not the causes, and they told me they didn’t need my statement. The other guy, meanwhile, filled out a form. The kid who got hit was obviously dazed, possibly in shock, but didn’t seem seriously wounded. As I left, they were checking out his legs, which has some abrasions, but that was about it. He was very lucky. It bothered the hell out of me, though, for the next couple of hours. My empathy was not only for the kid, but for the driver of the car, who did pull over, did the right thing, and waited for the police to arrive. But she was getting yelled at by people as soon as she got out of the car, and she broke down crying as soon as a cop went over to talk to her. She was just a kid, too. It would not be something I would want to have in my memory, the day I hit someone. The witness guy said to me, “Man, when I was that young,” gesturing over to the young driver of the car, “I did things that I’m ashamed of now. But I never hurt anyone but myself. You don’t realize that running a red light can kill someone.”

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