The child wept, but she didn’t struggle, taking her teacher’s hand and walking back into the building, all the while throwing kisses over her shoulder.

A young bearded man—a Hasid? she wondered—wearing a bright orange EMT vest crouched down beside her. Instinctively, she recoiled.

“Listen, we’re from Hatzalah, the local Boro Park volunteer ambulance group. Someone called us. Can you tell me your name and what happened?”

“My name is Mrs. Leah Lehman, but I’m not sure what happened.”

“It was an accident,” a man offered.

“No, it was dafka. Some Hasid, a meshuganah bulvan on a bicycle, was riding on the sidewalk and rammed right into her! Didn’t even stop!” an older woman informed him, adjusting her head covering. “What’s going on in this neighborhood? A shandah!”

The EMT nodded, surprised. “A Hasid? Are you sure?”

“I don’t know a Hasid from a misnagid?” the woman scoffed. “Payis down to his pupik.”

“A frum person to do something like this. Disgusting,” the young mother agreed, incensed.

“Teenagers,” someone else suggested.

“Teenagers don’t have long beards,” the irate older woman continued. “Here, sweetheart, I’m writing down my name, my number. I’ll put it in your pocketbook. I’ll be a witness for you. Zay gezunt! Be well.”

“Someone called the police?” the EMT asked.

No one spoke.

“Okay, we’ll report this. But first, let’s take care of you,” he said, his wide, dark eyes filled with concern and sincere sympathy. “Tell me how you feel.”

“Like I got into a fight with an angry three-hundred-pound gorilla.”

He smiled. “Do I have your permission to examine you?” he asked.

“Are you a doctor?”

“No, but we are all trained professionals, and we will only do first aid. In ten minutes, you’ll be in the emergency room of Maimonides Medical Center. We’ve already called ahead.”

“Okay, thanks.” Gently, and very delicately, they lifted her onto a stretcher and carried her to the ambulance. Behind a curtain pulled closed for modesty, one of them very professionally examined her wounds, cleaning them and applying disinfectant. “The good news is that mostly you’ve just got some superficial scrapes and bruises. We can’t tell for sure, but you don’t seem to have a concussion. The bad news is that it looks like one of the fingers on your left hand might be broken. Can you try moving it?”

She shook her head. The pain was excruciating.

By the time Yaakov arrived at the hospital, her head had already been x-rayed, concussion and bleeding ruled out, the finger set, and all her wounds—all of them ugly but superficial—bandaged.

She touched the bandage on her forehead. “I must look like an extra in a disaster movie.”