Michael Noach was lighting a candle on his hanukkiah in the window of his small terrace when he heard a crash and someone crying out. Instinctively, he reached for the phone next to his window but stilled his hand when he heard a second cry, this time clearly coming from the back. He stood still, stroking his beard, pondering his actions. Another yell. He could not ignore a human in pain, so he picked up the torch he kept by the back door and peered outside.

“Is anyone there?”

“Oh shit,” said a voice. He shone the beam in that direction. There, on the ground, was a teenage boy, his foot at an oblique angle to his leg.

“Hold still,” urged Noach as he hurried across the yard, “I’ll help you up.”

“I think I’ve broken it.”