Driving down the highway, they spotted a minor motorcycle accident unfolding ahead. Without hesitation, they pulled over, helped the rider move his bike out of traffic, and parked their car to shield him from oncoming vehicles. Emergency lights flashing, they waited until the police arrived. The rider was shaken but unharmed, and no other cars were involved. When the officers gave the all-clear, the driver approached the motorcyclist with a reassuring smile and offered their phone number, promising dashcam footage that would show how skillfully he had avoided a pile-up.
The rider looked relieved. That footage could help his insurance claim, maybe even protect him from blame. They hugged, a quiet moment of solidarity between strangers. Then the driver rushed off to their appointment, arriving late but with a story that impressed everyone in the room. The meeting went better than expected, buoyed by the goodwill of the day’s events. But when they got home and checked the dashcam, their heart sank.
The footage was missing. The dashcam had stopped recording a week earlier—silently, without warning. Panic gave way to disbelief. They had promised proof, and now there was none. The rider had trusted them, and they had meant every word. But technology had failed them, and the weight of that realization settled in.
Still, they felt lucky. Lucky that the rider wasn’t hurt. Lucky that the police didn’t need the footage. Lucky that their good intentions hadn’t led to disappointment. It was a reminder that even when things go right, they can still go wrong—and that sometimes, all you can offer is your presence and your word.
They never saw the rider again, but the memory lingered. Not just of the accident, but of the hug, the trust, and the quiet hope that maybe, just maybe, the rider would be okay without the footage. It was a lesson in humility, in the limits of control, and in the unexpected ways kindness can ripple outward.
And every time they drive past that stretch of highway, they glance at the dashcam and remember: sometimes, being there is enough—even when the evidence isn’t.
