Joe Vega is a lost young man who cannot find his memory, the light in his eyes, or the sounds of his past. 

There is no way back and no map to follow. He is stuck where he stands, void of purpose except for this moment.

Blood pooled at his wrists. 

He opens his mouth, hearing only silence. 

57th and Fifth Avenue. It’s 3 o’clock. 1966. 

Invisible to the crowds rushing past him.

He’s late for work. 

Chock full o'Nuts Coffee Shop, where splashing cups on customers and flipping those greasy half-beef patties onto stale buns while smiling uselessly is the menu.

Hopelessly. It’s a future that never arrives.

No, he’s just going to throw himself at the feet of New York’s finest, directing traffic in the middle of 57th and Fifth Avenue.

The symbol of a civilized society, the guardian of order and protector of the law. 

He’ll take care of things. He’ll know what to do and how to help. 

This really wasn’t a badly botched suicide attempt that began in Central Park on a knoll overlooking a quiet, placid lake. 

No, it’s more like a cry for help.

That’s what they will later tell the nice, busy policeman, minding his job and not thinking about someone falling, as they scrawl with their bloodied hands on his long blue coat, the silver badge glinting in the afternoon sun on a fall day in the middle of Fifth Avenue, encircled by the rush-hour traffic crush and a №49 bus vainly attempting a left turn onto 57th Street, blocked by hundreds of New Yorkers zombie-fast-walking to stale jobs and the latest personal-bankruptcy sales at Bloomingdales and Macys. 

Slowed down by gawking tourists.

Look, Ethel, Tiffany, Bergdorf Goodman, Van Cleef & Arpels.

They all stop. 

The burly policeman was distracted for a second. 

The tourists were dropping their jaws in awe at the sight of the young man, with red blood pooling at his wrists and dripping a trail down Fifth Avenue. 

Falling with arms and hands outstretched, as if he were praying to the skyscrapers before him, barely shouting. 

Help me.

Oh, well, it's just another distraction in New York City. 

The tourists move on.

Writer’s note: You are never alone. Someone is always there to help you. The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline. 1-800-273-8255.