I wish Ousmane a pleasant night, as I prepare to leave. I read the time on my watch: 11h54. I was the last one in the park, since the establishment closes at midnight.

The man circles his front desk, calling out, "Tanza?"

"I'm leaving, don't worry!"

I smile, but he adds: "Are you takin' the subway or your car?"

Hesitantly, I still reply, "The subway. I should get going."

"At this hour, really?!" he gawks at me, seemingly worried.

"Better than being out in the streets."

I instinctively stop in front of the doors, suspecting he will not let me go.

"Let me give you a ride. The boss is closing tonight."

"No, it's really not necessary. I like taking the subway."

"You do? No one likes the Gotham City subway, not even the rats that live there! I'd feel bad to let you walk away when it's late."

His grin is earnest, however I do not make a habit of accepting lifts from strangers. I politely decline, again, even if I agree that the subway is not significantly safer - or cleaner - than the streets.

"You shouldn't go out of your way to do this, I didn't bring my car, it's my problem. Have a nice night, again, okay?"

Before I can fully step back, the employee attempts, "I'll drive with the windows open?"

I half-sigh, half-chuckle.

"Alright, Ousmane. Thank you."

My driver memorized my address from my file in the 'Rampes n' Roll''s database. Fortunately, as established by my lack of automobile, I do not live far away. I inattentively listen to the low and crackling music that escapes his radio, looking out the rolled down passenger window.

"My father never would have forgiven me if I let our number one customer get jumped," jokes Ousmane.

"When you're closed, he's your father again?" I laugh shortly, and he joins me.

"Yes, yes. All jokes aside, you know this already, me and him are very close. Same thing with my brothers."

A blood-curling shriek prevents me from coming up with an answer. The voice of a woman screams two other times, in a row.

In my opinion, if you're in Gotham City, you have just as many chances to get shot inside of a car than by simply riding on the subway. It's just another of the city's many charms.

The words leave my mouth of their own volition: "We have to stop."

"Are you crazy? We can't do anything about that." For once, his voice isn't booming and pleasant, rather thin and shame leaks from it.

"I'm calling the cops, then."

I produce my cellphone from my sports bag, dialing the Gotham City Police Department.

"If it makes you feel better," he comments, unusually dryly.

I listen to the subtle ringing, awaiting someone to pick up. The line abruptly shuts down, so I try again, as Ousmane slows down his car and parks in front of my apartment building. After five rings, a croaking bark emanates from my phone:

"Ya?"

"Uh, is this the Gotham City Pol..."

The old-sounding man on the other end of the line cuts me off. "Yeah, yeah."

"Hi. I heard screams at the corner of Hudson Avenue and 20th Street, a woman is in danger there."

I wait for a second, hearing him merely breathe loudly into the receiver.

"Hello?" I snap, aghast with disbelief.

"What?!"

"Are you going to help her? Or check this out?"

I lightly clench my fist around my cellphone.

"Are you busy?" he asks roughly.

"Not really..?"

"We are. Help her yourself."

The line clicks harshly, and the irritating beeping of the ended call hammers into my brain. Did he just..? I turn my phone off and toss it inside my bag, glancing at Ousmane. I exhale shakily, then tell him:

"Sorry. Thank you so much for the ride."

"Don't apologize," he smiles softly, "You're a good person."

"Good night, again." "See you soon!" The sentences collide into each other and are blended away, trickling down into oblivion. My mind is blurry and I land on my couch, heaving. I wrestle with my jacket, forcibly tugging it off of me and throwing it impatiently onto the floor. The zipper clicks against the wood imitation material, and I'm inexplicably wheezing, struggling to regain my composure.

The Senegalese man's voice twists and slithers inside my head.

You're a good person. You're a good person. You're a good person. A good person. A good person. A good person. A good person. Good person.

Me? I'm not.

A disgraceful sob racks my entire body and my eyes are watering. I nestle my forehead between my outstretched palms, fighting against my tears. A knot in my throat is choking me, I cough, muffled by my posture, it only hurts more.

Does a good person jump out of the car, heedless of danger and regardless of judgement, or stays safe to help more people tomorrow? Sacrificing one to save the majority... The classic trolley problem. I laugh bitterly, a nearly hysterical giggle. I raise my eyes, blinking to suppress any tears I have not already eradicated, staring at the black TV screen, shrouded in the pitch darkness of my apartment.

I can't help everyone. There are more people screaming in Gotham, and everywhere on Earth, than I could save in a dozen lifetimes.

Lying in bed, clad in a pair of boxer shorts and an oversized light blue T-shirt, I defy the ceiling with my glare. I got the shirt from the Gotham General Hospital, at a charity event, a fundraiser for children living with deadly illnesses. I'm gripping at my covers so hard that I can feel my wrists aching and my knuckles are abnormally tense. I promptly lie on my left side, sighing. I move my right hand up to dig my fingers into my pillow instead. As sleep gently weighs me down, I feel a cold teardrop roll down my skin.

~

I wrap my hand around the hollow plastic handle of my orange juice jug, taking it out of my refrigerator. I pour myself a tall glass of it, to avoid leaving a minuscule puddle at the bottom of the container, then set the plastic receptacle in my kitchen's sink. I will rinse and recycle it after my breakfast.

A bowl of oat flakes with fruits and one peanut buttered toast later, I allow myself to check my cellphone. It is only 7h38 AM, but I have received three texts. One from the 'Rampes n' Roll''s phone number - which has undoubtedly been composed by Ousmane, seeing as it dates from a quarter to one o'clock this morning.

(Have a good night's sleep, Tanza. I hope I did not insult you.)

I thank him and assure him that I was not at all "insulted" by his demeanor. I was foolish to believe even for a minute that GCPD police officers would actually uphold their code. The two other text messages are from Cheryl and were sent around 3 AM and 7 AM respectively.

(Let's go out for drinks tomorrow!!!!!!!)

She probably means today.

(I should've asked if you're available tonight first 😆 Can we go out???????)

Unfortunately, my shift today begins at 2 o'clock and ends toward the same time, tomorrow morning. I took the day off tomorrow for my birthday, not that I have any incredibly exciting plans... Despite this fact, I prefer not to surround myself willingly with emergencies and sickness on that day.

Cheryl is offering me a golden opportunity to learn more about her or, at least, get closer to her. Now is the perfect time to cement our potential friendship, before our daily texting routine loses its momentum. I must capitalize on the initial excitement she felt when we spoke at her boyfriend's nightclub if I want my scheme to work. Therefore, I lick my lower lip and type my message:

(I'm working tonight, but we can meet for lunch.)

I hesitate to add "if that's not too inconvenient for you" or some variation, however I need to sound decisive and affirmative. Instead, I add two smileys and press 'Send'. I put the device down and start getting ready for my day.

I am brushing my teeth, fully clothed in dark blue jeans and a greenish khaki shirt underneath a black knitted vest - these items all fitting loosely around my toned frame - when I hear my ringtone. I spit out the mouthful of toothpaste and jog into my main living space, genuinely happy to see Cheryl's name lit up on the screen. I answer the phone, wiping my lips with my left wrist.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Tanza! This is Cheryl. Good morning to you."

I smile halfway at her singsongy introduction. "I know. Good morning to you, too."

"I'm calling 'cause I got your text. I'd love to have lunch with you today." Her voice is remarkably joyful, yet smooth.

"Great! We could go to the 'Salty Cups' on Manhattan Boulevard."

This coffee shop is located relatively near the Cock-and-Bull.

"I like that place, but do you think maybe we could go to the one on Sency?"

Sency Avenue?! The road lines expectedly sinful, but more upper-class establishments. Notably, it is adjacent to the 'Forbidden Fruit Casino'. Needless to say, anything that is deemed "upper-class" in Gotham is simply decorated to provide a false sense of wealth and cleanliness to whoever has accumulated enough dirty money to enter it.

"Sure! How does noon sound to you?"

What else was I supposed to say? The hospital is situated at equivalent distances from either one anyway.

"Sounds awesome. I'll be there!"

"Cool! I'll see you then."

"Indeed! Bye!"

She hangs up, and I find myself grinning. Indeed? The young woman never ceases to surprise me.