A finger in the river

A man in a trench coat was walking by the river at the start of spring. It was midday, the sun was high in the sky. Would the man take off his trench coat because of the heat? Would he hang it from his arm, as if it were his prisoner? Or would he endure the warmth with the coat still on?

A cyclist was exercising along the river, riding very fast, about to crash into the man in the trench coat. The man had taken off the coat and was now holding it like a prisoner under his arm.

The cyclist was going too fast, and the crash was imminent. The brakes were no longer enough; they didn’t have time to stop themselves.

Two ladies walking their little dogs also sensed the impending accident. They covered their mouths and eyes to avoid witnessing what was about to happen.

The poor man with the trench coat under his arm was frozen in place. He wouldn’t have time to shield himself with his arms to soften the cyclist’s blow—what would he do?

Would he throw his coat into the air, so it might fly away and at least save itself? What would he do?

Point with his finger.

And so, in a moment of clarity, the man in the trench coat used his free arm to extend his hand and pointing index finger. And he pointed to his left.

Which was the cyclist’s right. The cyclist made a decision and followed his instinct, turning the handlebars slightly toward the side the man was pointing to—though they were different sides, they turned out to be the same side.

They were saved. Hallelujah, whispered the ladies with the little dogs.