I circled back and pulled onto the shoulder about twenty feet behind her car. The moment my headlight hit her, she jumped up and held that tire iron like a weapon. “Stay back!” she screamed. “I have mace!”
I cut my engine and held up both hands. “Easy, sweetheart. I’m just here to help with your tire. I’m not going to hurt you.”
She didn’t lower the tire iron. “I don’t need help. I’m fine. Just leave me alone.”
Yet she wasn’t fine. She was shaking so hard I could see it from twenty feet away. Her voice cracked when she spoke. And she kept glancing at her trunk.
“Look,” I said, keeping my voice soft and my hands visible. “I’m a firefighter. Retired. I’ve got a daughter about your age. I’m not leaving a kid alone on a dark highway at midnight. So you can either let me change your tire, or I’m calling the police to come help you. Your choice.”
At the mention of police, her face went white. “No! No police. Please.”
That’s when I knew something was seriously wrong. “Okay,” I said carefully. “No police. But I’m not leaving you here alone either. So let’s just change this tire and get you somewhere safe. Deal?”
She hesitated, still holding that tire iron. Then she looked at my vest—at the American flag patch, the Firefighters MC rocker, the veteran patches. Something in her face shifted. “You’re really a firefighter?”
“Twenty-seven years with Station 14. Retired three years ago.” I took a slow step closer. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”
“Madison.” Her voice was barely a murmur. “I’m Madison.”
“Nice to meet you, Madison. I’m Rick.” I smiled at her. “Now how about you put down that tire iron before you hurt yourself, and let an old man show off his tire-changing skills?”
She lowered the tire iron slowly. Yet she was still shaking. Still glancing at her trunk. “You can’t call anyone,” she said. “You can’t tell anyone you saw me. Please.”
“Why not?” I asked, moving closer to examine the flat tire. It wasn’t just flat—the sidewall was blown out completely. This tire had been driven on while flat, probably for miles. “Madison, what’s going on?”
Before she could answer, I heard it. A small sound from inside the trunk. A whimper. A child’s whimper.
I froze. Madison’s eyes went wide with panic. “Please,” she murmured. “Please don’t call the police. Please.”
“Madison,” I said quietly. “Who’s in your trunk?”
Madison’s knees buckled, and she slid down against the side of the car, burying her face in her hands. The tire iron clattered against the asphalt.
