I’m riding the Q train in Brooklyn. It’s a crowded train, and I’m standing close to a pair of women. The two are chatting amiably, and at first I don’t notice that one is visibly pregnant. After the train stops and people shuffle in and out, another woman is about to take a vacant seat, then, noticing the pregnant woman, gestures for her to sit. She does, and the woman who has offered the seat shakes her head and makes some kind of comment under her breath to the effect, ‘People need to offer their damned seats to a pregnant woman!’ The man sitting in the same bench, who has not offered his seat, doesn’t pay any heed to this, and the woman who’s taken the seat seems unperturbed, and continues the conversation she’s having with her friend. The two are apparently coworkers taking the train home together. At 7th Avenue they say their goodbyes, and the woman who’s been standing prepares to exit the train. Just as the doors slide open however, she hesitates, lists slightly as if she has lost her equilibrium, then falls backward, careening off the metal handhold and landing on the train floor. For a moment no one moves. The man on the bench next to her sits stoically, closed within himself. I too am frozen, thinking: this is a medical emergency, and I’m not really qualified to help. The pregnant woman finally gets up, looks searchingly around the train car, as if hoping someone will step forward. The woman on the ground has her eyes open and is staring vacantly into space. They train doors, meanwhile, have been held open by someone who has turned back and recognized the urgency of the situation. Finally I manage to shake my paralysis and kneel down next to the woman. I try to support her shoulders from beneath. When I touch her she seems to come to, making eye contact with me. ‘Are you okay?’ I ask. ‘Do you need medical care?’ Someone else has offered to call an ambulance. But the woman has regained her strength and sits up, fully alert. ‘No, no, I’m okay. Thank you.’ Indeed, without further assistance she stands up, brushes herself off, and walks calmly out of the train as her pregnant friend stands helplessly by. People go back to their magazines, their smartphones and their conversations. For a moment I’m overcome with self-consciousness, thinking about the gap between the brief intimacy that took place when the woman collapsed and the immediate return to impersonal subway decorum: how should I behave toward my fellow passengers in this awkward aftermath – those who also helped, and those who stood idly by?