His gaze fixed on me through a gap in the crowd. A man, dressed exactly like the murdering antagonist in my graphic novel, ‘Mad Dog Moller’—trademark sunglasses included. A chill ran down my spine. The cold air of the carriage caressed my skin, raising goosebumps on my arms.

Bodies jolted, then settled. Repetitive beeps rang out as doors slid open. Shuffling feet faded as a gust flicked my book’s pages to a scene that froze my heart. The coincidence unnerved me: three comic cells over two pages. A young boy and Mad Dog Moller, alone on a carriage, opposite each other. Flickering lights. Darkness. Screams.

A sudden movement snapped my attention from the terrifying pages. The man now sat directly opposite me. Why had he moved? The link with my novel triggered momentary, fear-fueled paralysis.

The continuous beeps returned. Door closure was imminent. You only live once, and a sixth sense that churned in my gut said to jump for the open door.

The man flinched, startled by the warning beeps. The lights flickered. He grimaced. His hands shielded his eyes from the triggering light. Whoosh! Another tram sped past. The man’s head spun, alarmed by the sudden racket.

His movements spooked me. It was now or never. I rushed to the door and stuck my arm out, preventing its closure.

‘Wait!’ the man’s voice shook, desperately searching for my attention. ‘What stop is this?’

Frozen by a combination of fear, shock, and empathy, I witnessed this man’s body manifest into a trembling mess.

‘Forrestville!’ Where my courage came to respond perplexes me to this day.

Panic spasmed the man into action as he searched for something to assist him to his feet. His body flinched as I latched onto his arm.

‘This your stop?’ I asked bravely.

‘Yes! Please, help me!

I pulled the man through the door, and we both crashed onto the platform. The doors shut; the tram abandoned me.

Hands slapped the pavement. Keeping my distance, I observed the man desperately searching for his sunnies that had fallen off.

The light of the tram stop had his head in a spin, fighting its potency to avoid its venomous sting.

‘Here,’ I said, daring to bend down and pick them up.

The man searched the air with his hands. That is when I noticed his eyes. Red, swollen. A scratch mark, a fresh wound, horrifically stretched across his left and right eye sockets.

Tears welled within the man’s eyes, evolving into a constant flow.

‘I can’t see. Light stings my eyes. Everything is a blur. Help me!’

I placed the glasses carefully over the man’s eyes. Their presence brought instant calm.

‘The hospital is down the road. I’ll guide you.’  

His thankful smile taught me a lesson – never judge a book by its cover.