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T I realized my life was in danger occurred in my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My closest companion, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to visit a friend from college who had made a new home there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and reveling in the anticipation of the party weekend ahead, we conversed constantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We stashed our bags – containing vital items such as wine bottles and the clogs I had just bought – above our heads and got seated in a comfortable double seat. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Another one sounded, which could not be dismissed. A woman screamed as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like a delayed sequence. Suddenly, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. With my head lowered, eyelids tightly closed, I expected the carriage to overturn and ignite, as I’d seen in films. I recall pondering our families and friends receiving the notification. Subsequently, there was the child sobbing.

“You’re all right,” I murmured, my voice sounding croaky. “It's finished now,” I stated, primarily to calm my own nerves.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; here was my chance to help. I went to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Don’t look round,” Helen shouted, but it was already too late. I saw a man whose face was bloody. An enormous piece of metal had penetrated the window behind us. Afterward, we found out a uncontrolled excavator had descended the slope and collided with the train, making the train leave the tracks.

Our compartment was trapped with its nose pointing upward. Then came the noise of sirens and another traveler instructed me to hand the child over so he could assist her exit through the opening, where children were being evacuated to waiting firefighters. Shortly after, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and climbing down a ladder down to the rails.

Back on terra firma – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. I searched for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, who it turned out had been using the restroom when the crash occurred. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. A fellow passenger plonked down on Helen’s case, making it split apart – but, by good fortune our wine was unharmed. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we traveled in a provided car to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the lady who had broken Helen’s case. Our university friend greeted us, visibly shaken. She had heard there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and offered her a hot drink while she anticipated updates.

With the invincibility of youth, we set the accident aside and continued with our evening plans, which involved a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, despite the fact that several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I got away with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to approach Leeds station, which had been the key factor in averting grave physical damage. Since nobody was badly hurt helped not to focus on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who made a permanent impression. Looking after her and reassuring her distracted me from my own fear and taught me the value of directing attention externally in a crisis. Over the years, I have frequently pondered if she had any memory of the event, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for thirty-plus years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our capacity to handle with anything, so long as we are together. Having her companionship during the accident created the sensation that I was shielded against the worst of the situation. The crash also changed my method of handling various difficult situations, offering me a new viewpoint – and reinforcing the idea that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is invariably an honor to get older.