Six weeks after I drove an injured stranger to the hospital, someone came to my front door with papers. The man I’d stopped to help was suing me. I’d found him on my way home from a night shift. His car had gone down an embankment on a road where you could drive for miles without passing anyone. He was conscious. When he saw me at the window, he kept saying, “Please help me.” I called emergency services and gave them our location. The dispatcher told me to avoid moving him and wait for the rescue crew. I heard her. I even said I understood. But he was in pain, and every time he cried out, I looked up the empty road. There was no fire. The car wasn’t about to fall farther. I was frightened anyway. I decided I could get him to the hospital faster than help could reach us. So I helped him out and into my car. At the hospital, I stayed to explain where I’d found him. I called his family using the number he gave me. His wife thanked me when she arrived. I went home after sunrise, exhausted but relieved that I hadn’t driven past. Weeks later, someone called asking exactly how I’d moved him. I answered everything. I assumed it was for his insurance. Then I opened those papers. He wasn’t claiming I’d caused the crash. He was claiming that what I’d done afterward had made his injuries worse. And they had the recording of my emergency call.