A Nikon camera strapped around his neck, the ancient geezer didn't fit in our island getaway. He perched on the balcony, sipped coffee, and faked a glance at a colorful brochure. I could tell he couldn't care less about what he held in his hand. Fifteen minutes elapsed. He never once flipped the cover.

I brought him seafood bisque. We exchanged half-hearted pleasantries. I forced myself not to stare at the oblong scar on his cheek. I picked up my bus tub, but couldn't place him.

Then, it struck me. My car had crashed. This was the stranger who yanked me out just before the vehicle exploded. I raced back to his table.

GONE!

I moved his bowl. There was his tip and this note:

"Forever indebted to you. I was headed to murder my invalid wife. Saving your life brought me back to a proper perspective. Thanks to you we celebrated our thirty-fifth anniversary together."

Chills raced down my spine. The night I wrecked, I was headed to pole dance in a strip joint. His heroic gesture turned my life around.

I unfolded his tip. Two singles wrapped another thousand bucks. I turned away. Tears flooded down my face.