“That’s all he has,” one of them laughed.
“Even beggars have something,” Kojo said, pocketing the coins.
“Please,” Kofi begged. “He’s dying.”
Kojo kicked the bicycle hard. It tilted violently. Kofi lunged forward to keep the man from falling.
“Don’t!” he cried.
For a moment Kojo watched him. Then he sneered.
“Let him die.”
Something inside Kofi snapped—not loudly, but deeply.
“No,” he said.
Kojo frowned. “What did you say?”
Kofi raised his head, trembling but firm.
“I said no.”
The laughter stopped.
Kojo shoved him hard, and Kofi fell again. The bicycle slipped. The injured man nearly toppled. Somehow Kofi caught him in time, his arms screaming with pain.
“I don’t have anything,” Kofi gasped, looking up at them. “But I’m not leaving him.”
Kojo stared at him for a long moment, then scoffed.
“Stupid boy.”
He waved his hand. The others stepped back.
Kofi waited until they were gone, then secured the man again with shaking hands. The coins were gone. His last money. It no longer mattered.
He climbed back onto the bicycle and kept going.
Later, the road rose into a long incline. Kofi’s strength had almost left him. His foot slipped off the bent pedal. The bicycle lurched and crashed. He struck the ground hard, pain exploding through his shoulder.
This time he did not get up at once.
He lay there, breathless, body shaking, the road cold beneath him.
“I can’t,” he whispered.
The words became louder, then broke apart into tears.
“I tried. I really tried. I’m just a child. I don’t have anything. I don’t have anyone.”
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