I was there the day you lost your arm. Sometimes I hear your scream from a neighborhood child, piercing and ripe with terror and shock. As I ate cheesecake in the break room, you fulfilled the tasks of our job. You waited too long. I saw your eyes for a moment, and I grew ten feet, then cowered behind a box of boxes, unable to be human, just a twitch. I wanted to tell you I tried to help, my hands felt gone, too, dialing 911 with my forearm. The blood. When I thought it was safe to emerge, an arm was handed to me like an entree, My head hit the red floor. I never saw you again but I heard you lived. I'm sorry I wore your apron.