It was late, almost too late, when Mark went out to catch the bus 143 which would bring him to the other end of the town. It would be the last bus. He hated to get the night bus; the people looked so unhealthy, somehow unhygienic. He was afraid to get infected and as a result wanted to get the last bus. Dark rain was pouring and at the traffic light an old man was catching the green phase to pass the road. Mark was watching as the man was crawling over this river. There was a small island in between, for those who were too slow. It was there to rest and save energy for the further journey to the other side of the road. Mark wondered whether he should help the man; perhaps he was out of breath; perhaps he would collapse, there, in the middle of this traffic island. He was just too slow to pass the traffic light. Mark found himself to far away to intervene, but could not help to think of his grand father, who always shouted at the city and its speed. It's not a good place, the grand-dad had said, neither for children, nor for animals and also not for old people. They just wait to die in the flat where they spent the last fifty years. Most of them are old women, who lost their husband, and know they wait to follow. There are entire quarters, he had told Mark, where the people are just waiting, waiting to leave. They have no purpose, and there are few who show interest in them, unless they die. Mark suddenly looked up with a start. His bus was approaching with monstrous speed and noise. He dashed passed the driver, up the top level of bus to see what had happened to the man when they came to the traffic light. While the bus was excellerating and gaining speed to catch the green phase, Mark was looking out of the back window of the bus from where he could see the man. He had collapsed.