"What is his name?" I shouted out into the silent crowd. I looked from face to face, and whenever I met their eyes they looked down not totally ashamed of what they had done.
I wasn't usually the one to stand up in front of a crowd, but what they had done was atrocious. My community stood before me and said nothing. I suddenly felt the sudden urge to shrink back into a corner and become invisible.
NO! I would not stand and let this happen. A man lay dying on the street while his perpetrators stood around him with smug expressions slapped on their faces. They had no remorse and no heart.
"WHAT IS HIS NAME!" I exploded. No one answered; no one cared. I had had the last of this hostility. "GO!" I told them. When they didn't move at first I screamed it again and again until finally the crowd started to brake.
My friends and family would never look at me the same after this, but I didn't care. I ran over to him and knelt on the ground. His face was streaked with blood and both of his eyes looked to have been painted black. his lower lip was busted, and he didn't look like he had much longer to live. "What's your name?" I whispered. my voice was hoarse from the yelling.
"Isaiah," he croaked back. He painfully slid his hand into his pocket and pulled out a small metal box about the size of my hand. "Keep this safe for me will you?" his breathing became shallow and his eyes began to close. The last words he spoke to me were, "don't worry about me, for I am assured after death." What did he mean?

