Sundays.
“In our fire department, we have a rule,” he told me, stirring his coffee. “We never leave anyone behind. Never.”
I didn’t reply, but one sentence kept popping into my head:
“My own daughter just left me behind.”
When we finally arrived in front of the “Les Tilleuls” residence, the sun was beginning to set, illuminating the facades with soft colors.
Marc helped me get off the motorcycle as if I were made of porcelain, took my cane, my bag, and pushed open the glass door of the residence.
The receptionist looked at us, bewildered, when she saw this tall man in a worn jacket and this disheveled old lady with a helmet in her hand.
“Hello,” said Marc with a smile. “I’ve come to bring Mrs. Dubois back; she had… a last-minute change of plans. I’d like to make sure she gets up safely to her apartment.”
You could see in his eyes that he hadn’t
