Every time I recall that drizzly Tuesday, I watch myself make the same retreat, the same proverbial pulling of the hospital plug, disobeying the impulse to squeeze my brake lever and stay. Every memory ends with me pushing my two wheels at a faster pace than the traffic beside me, and a faster pace than I’d move at even when late for my mail run. In every memory I leave the man on the bridge behind, though in some versions I do work up the nerve to stay and chat a little longer.