I crashed on my bike the other day. After almost forty years of daily riding, I’ve come to accept that crashes happen with mathematical regularity—this time on a gravel-covered corner in Carlisle. I survived with nothing broken, however, my bike was unridable. Since my wife—my usual rescue wagon—was conducting personal business, I requested an UberXL and used the waiting time to dig pieces of gravel out of my skin.

When the driver arrived, he first remarked on the blood. Sliding across pavement in the protective equivalent of underwear always results in some amount of bleeding; this time was worse than usual. He insisted on loading my bike in the back of his Highlander, and I initially assumed he thought I was too injured to manage it. After getting in, I told him I was very sorry if I bled on his seat. He said not to worry about it—he had seen quite a bit of blood in his life. It turned out that he was an immigrant from Afghanistan, one of the brave locals who helped U.S. soldiers in the war against the Taliban. He had assisted medics treating Americans and civilians alike, and as we drove he gave me loads of advice on wound treatment and healing.

He also told me a bit of his story. His assistance to the United States had put his and his family’s life in danger, so he had been granted asylum in the U.S. He worked multiple jobs, including Uber driving and construction, and was very much hoping to become a plumber, a trade he had practiced in Afghanistan. He was having a hard time getting hired, however, and he could not stop working to study for the license test because his family was stuck in Pakistan and he needed to send them money. Although they had escaped the Taliban, where they lived was still very dangerous. He showed me pictures of his two children. He was desperate to get them to America and hoped that the U.S. would finally grant them entry. He had not seen them in two years.

When we arrived at my house, I asked for a cleaning wipe from the box he had on the center console. He asked why, and I said so I could clean my blood off his seat. He recoiled from the request, saying that in his culture, it would be very inappropriate for me to do the cleaning. He was providing the service, and he would take care of it. He also insisted on unloading my bike, which I now understood to be part of this sense of service.

I thanked him and told him that in my culture, we provide big tips when we are given good service, and it would be inappropriate for him to refuse. So I went into the house, emptied my wallet, and gave him the wad of bills. He was grateful for the tip. I was grateful to have him in our country.