The air yesterday afternoon was suffocatingly hot and thick. On the roof of an old, run-down apartment building right on the corner, a young man suddenly appeared. He sat right at the edge, his legs dangling over the wall, leaving everyone below with their hearts in their throats. It didn't take long for the street underneath to completely choke up with traffic. Motorcyclists didn't even bother turning off their engines; they just stopped dead in the middle of the road, staring straight up.
Business picked up instantly at the roadside stalls selling iced coffee and grilled meat. People stood around chewing on ice, pointing up at the roof and speculating. Some held up their phones to record video, while others just passed the time shooting the breeze. You could hear fire trucks wailing off in the distance, but down on the pavement, the thick stench of motorbike exhaust and the oppressive heat had already taken over the scene.
A lot of the people trying to make a living around here end up crammed into beat-up buildings just like that one—working hard physical labor by day and sleeping under rattling old fans by night. On these streets, crowds gather fast and scatter just as quickly. Word later came around that someone managed to talk the young man down safely. Down below, the onlookers dusted off their clothes, shook their heads, and drifted back to their own daily hustle.
