The man darted across the street, uncaring as vehicles honked and swerved to keep from hitting him. Two of the cars collided. Even from where I sat, I heard the squeal of tires and the grind of smashing metal.

My eyes rounded as two burly, scowling guys sprinted out of the brownstone, apparently giving chase to the harried, wreck-causing man-who was now racing inside Utopia as if his life depended on it.

The bell chimed and I shoved myself to my feet, spilling my latte further. I set the cup on the table and stared over at the man. Skin pale, features tense, breath emerging raggedly, he scanned the café wildly. His gaze bypassed me, then quickly snapped back. Across the distance, our eyes locked.

“Are you okay?” I called, projecting my voice over the inane chatter around us.

“Please, help me,” he choked out. He sprinted toward me, shoving people out of the way and babbling, “They weren’t supposed to know. They weren’t supposed to chase me.”

Some gasped. Some snarled, “Watch it.”

When the man reached me, he gripped my forearms. Sweat trickled from his brow; fear filled his dilated eyes. “You have to help me,” he said between shallow pants. “They’re going to kill me.”

Kill? My mouth went dry; my blood mutated into ice, yet hot prickles slithered along my spine. “Stay here,” I said. “No, hide. No, stay. Oh, hell. Do whatever while I call 911.” His clasp tightened on me, but I tugged free and shouted to the people around me, “Does anyone have a cell phone?” I’d given mine up as an extravagance I could no longer afford. “Anyone?” I leapt around the tables, but everyone purposefully avoided my gaze. “I won’t use up your minutes, I swear. This is an emergency.”

“I demand to speak with the manager,” someone said, wanting, I’m sure, to complain about what had just happened and demand free service.