Antoine had cut himself on the broken glass coaster we’d left on top of the refrigerator. My husband was whispering the details as I walked through the door. “I think he’s going to be fine,” he said quietly, “but we should give him some money.”
Antoine worked for the service that came to clean our friend’s apartment while we were staying there. When I went upstairs to find him, he said his hand was probably going to be OK, but he mentioned a past event when a tree branch had punctured his skin, causing an infection in his arm. I glanced at the small see-through bandage on his index finger and saw no evidence of anything serious, yet I sensed that Antoine felt vulnerable. I offered to take him to the emergency room, which he declined. He seemed fine, but how did I know? As he left I pressed some cash into his hand and gave him my phone number, inviting him to call me if anything terrible came from this mishap.
I could have been suspicious and self-protective, careful not to appear too responsible lest it bite me in the hindsight, but this just isn’t how I want to…
