The Good Samaritan

The traffic on Interstate 10 had stopped moving sometime before dawn. Flashing police lights painted the wet pavement red and blue while impatient drivers leaned on horns that no one could do anything about. Rain hammered the overpass outside Baton Rouge, turning the shoulder into a muddy ditch.

Daniel Mercer sat inside his black SUV gripping the steering wheel. He was a state senator on his way to a televised prayer breakfast where he planned to speak about faith, morality, and “taking care of our own.” His assistant sat beside him scrolling through social media.

“Looks bad,” she muttered. “Probably a wreck.”

Daniel glanced toward the shoulder. A small sedan had slammed into the concrete barrier. The windshield was shattered. A young man lay half-conscious near the guardrail, blood mixing with rainwater.

Cars crept past.

“Call 911,” Daniel said automatically.

“They’re already here somewhere,” his assistant replied, pointing at distant lights.

Daniel looked again at the injured man. He considered stopping. Cameras might arrive soon. But the prayer breakfast was important. Reporters would be there. Donors too.

“If we stop now, we’ll be trapped for hours,” the assistant warned.

Daniel nodded once and eased forward with traffic.

A few minutes later a church van pulled onto the shoulder. The side read: New Life Fellowship Youth Mission Team. Several passengers stared through the windows at the injured man. The pastor driving hesitated.

“We should probably help,” one teenager said softly.

The pastor checked his watch. “The sheriff will handle it. We’ve got fifty kids waiting at the shelter.”

The van continued down the interstate.

Rain kept falling.

Nearly twenty minutes later, an aging white pickup truck pulled over hard enough to splash muddy water across the median. The driver jumped out without hesitation.

His name was Reza Farzan.

Most people who saw him noticed the accent first. Others noticed the dark beard, the prayer beads hanging from his mirror, or the small Iranian flag sticker faded on the truck window. Since immigrating to Louisiana fifteen years earlier, he had learned that many people already had a story prepared about him before he even spoke.

Reza ran to the injured man and knelt in the rain.

“Hey. Stay awake,” he said gently.

The young man blinked through blood and water. “Please don’t leave me.”

“I won’t.”

Reza removed his own jacket and pressed it against the wound on the man’s shoulder. When traffic began moving again, drivers stared as they passed the Iranian mechanic kneeling in the storm beside a stranger.

One man slowed long enough to yell, “Where are the police?”

Reza ignored him.

He stayed until paramedics arrived. Then he followed the ambulance to the hospital because the injured man’s phone was broken and there was no one else to contact his family. He waited four hours in a plastic chair while doctors worked.

When the young man’s mother finally arrived, exhausted and terrified, she found Reza buying coffee from a vending machine.

“Are you family?” she asked.

“No,” he said quietly. “Just someone who stopped.”

She began crying anyway.

Later that week, the story spread online after a nurse posted about it. Thousands praised Reza’s kindness. Some called him a hero.

When a reporter asked why he had stopped, Reza looked confused by the question.

“In my faith,” he answered, “mercy is not complicated. A suffering person is your neighbor.”

The reporter asked if he was angry that so many others had driven past.

Reza thought for a moment.

“People are afraid,” he said. “Afraid of inconvenience. Afraid of strangers. Afraid of each other. But compassion only matters when it costs you something.”

Then he smiled sadly.

“Otherwise it is only words.”