He didn’t help her as she sprawled on the slickness of the bus stairs, her bag flung all the way under the driver’s chair.  He could hear her labored, rasping breathing as she tried to retrieve her now mud-slicked pocketbook from between the driver’s feet.  He was right there, front seat, could have offered a bare, hairy arm to the raincoated one that reached out to him.  But why should he; why should he?  Wasn’t his fault she fell.