Standing amongst a small group of people waiting for the elevator at the Clark Street subway station, I hear a loud noise behind me. I spin around and see a woman sprawled out face down on the ground. She seems frozen where she lies, and barely audible moans escape her mouth. Has she collapsed from some ailment? Somehow tripped and fallen on an uneven tile? I run over to her, as does a teenage boy standing nearby, and we both kneel down beside her. ‘Are you okay?’ ‘Do you need medical attention?’ She turns over slowly, looks up at us, and shakes her head. We delicately help her into a sitting position, and remain there next to her for several minutes. She doesn’t speak, she just sort of looks around, dazed. An older man standing by the elevators asks if he should summon help from the ticket agents upstairs. Again she shakes her head. It’s difficult to gauge her nationality/background, and I find myself wondering if she speaks English. Then, finally, she whispers, ‘I’m okay, just help me get onto my feet.’ The teenager and I each gingerly take an arm and hoist her upright. Her weight is surprising – dead weight, as they say. ‘Thank you,’ she whispers, and slowly gathers her things and shuffles over to the elevator, where the man who asked about getting help is now holding the doors. The woman is looking straight ahead as we ride the elevator up, every so often letting out of gentle sigh. Is she badly hurt and simply too ashamed to admit it? But no, when the doors open she shuffles out ahead of the crowd – again slowly, but sure of foot. As we exit on Clark Street I stop and observe her as she makes her way up the block, walking slowly, not looking back…