There seemed to be a group of people up the block, three or four standing, one lying on the ground. They made an island of concern in the flow of weekend lunchtime traffic on a quiet street. My wife and I quickened our pace.

The figure on the ground was a man, wearing a retro-sporty summer shirt, of the kind that has line drawings of water-skiers on it. Standing around him were women, most of them young, one, like him and evidently his wife, white-haired. What walks on four legs in the morning, two legs at noon, and lies on the sidewalk at evening?

It was one of those hot city days that Texans would sneer at but are unpleasant enough to fell the weak or ill. Happily this street is dotted with eateries. My wife and I stepped to a coffeehouse where I fetched two glasses of water. A waiter from a restaurant brought out another glass of water and, more helpfully, a chair. The women, first and closest responders, managed to lift the man up into it. The wife coaxed him to take a sip, I suggested dabbing forehead and neck.

The most active of the young women had called a doctor, a friend of hers, on her smartphone. Mid-century man, I do not dependably carry mine, but still think of quarters and pay phones. The doctor asked the sensible questions. Had he been drinking? No. How old was he? Octogenarian; had been celebrating his birthday, as a matter of fact. Did he have any condition? History? There had been one such faint or collapse some time ago, I didn’t get the details. The wife wanted to get him home, which was apparently just around the corner, but science advised getting him to an ER, or an urgent-care place. Where? There used to be that hospital a few blocks away, we see its illuminated sign out our apartment window at night; it had been downgraded to an ER only. One of the young women asked, Was it still in business? I thought so.

They would need a cab. Not only do I not carry my smartphone, even if I did I would not summon Uber since I still expect cabs, half of them Checkers, cruising hungrily on every thoroughfare. Fate answered desire: I saw one down at the next avenue, waved at it like a windmill; it saw and came. But the wife, sensibly, wanted to gather some belongings if they were to a hospital bound. Sent the cab on.

The sufferer meanwhile had recovered himself enough to chat, even joke. He recalled Mickey Mantle’s line, If I knew I was going to live this long I would have taken better care of myself. He shook hands with me and the young woman with the smartphone. Introductions. The young woman asked if I knew the couple (my hair is the color of theirs, perhaps the old have some group that they all belong to, like Swifties or storm-chasers). I said I didn’t. I reflected that I had left my own wife marooned in the coffee shop. Were things under enough control that I could go to her? The young woman assured me. End of that.

Lesson One concerns city-dwellers. Like any city, ours breeds thugs, and our mad just now are out of control. But ordinary folk here are in most cases well disposed and helpful. (N.B., if you block us when we are in a hurry, God help you.) Lesson Two is about the blessings of density. On the street we puzzled some about medical locations, but upstate there would be no puzzling: You would get in your car and drive 20, 30, 40 minutes. Hope you didn’t slice your carotid.

Lesson Three concerns the journey we are all on. I said the little matter in the street ended, but that was only for me. I have traveled in hospital land enough to know what awaited my momentary acquaintances. A waiting room, stuffed as in a subway with humanity. The examinations of professionals, the squeeze of the blood-pressure cuff, the tap of the thermometer. Only those in the best case. In worse cases, IVs, heads inserted in banging magnetic metal hatches. And in the worst case you will have to move to an old folks’ warehouse, and then you will have to move to the final residence. Grow old along with me.