It was close to 11 PM when I spotted a white sedan on the side of Highway 42 — hazards blinking weakly in the dark. I almost rode past. I was tired, forty miles from home. But then my headlights caught her — a teenage girl, maybe fifteen or sixteen, crouched by the rear tire, crying.
Something in her eyes stopped me cold. She wasn’t just frustrated. She was terrified.
I pulled over about twenty feet behind her car. The moment my lights hit her, she jumped up and brandished a tire iron like a weapon.
“Stay back!” she shouted. “I have mace!”
I shut off my engine and raised my hands. “Easy, sweetheart. I’m not here to hurt you — just to help.”
She was trembling so hard I could see it. Her voice cracked, and her eyes kept darting toward the trunk. When I mentioned calling the police, she went pale. “No police,” she whispered. “Please.”
That’s when I knew something was very wrong.
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