The officer stayed with her, gathered her statement, contacted a local domestic violence shelter.
I was giving my own statement when Brandi walked up. “Mr. Morrison, I need to thank you. You saved my life.”
“No. You asked if I felt safe. Nobody has asked in six months. Nobody cared.”
She rolled up her sleeves. Bruises, handprints, fingerprints. “He hit me because I smiled at a cashier.”
“How long has this been going on?” “Since we moved. Started small—control over clothes, money, friends. Then it turned physical. Never more than three dollars for gas. Today I finally tried to leave.”
“And then an old biker filled your tank, and everything changed.”
She cried again. “I don’t even know how to thank you.”
“You just need to be safe.”
Patricia, the advocate, arrived, escorted her to the shelter, arranged police help for her belongings. I handed her three hundred dollars to get home safely.
Brandi hugged me, tears streaming. “I’ll pay you back.”
Two weeks later, I called the shelter. Brandi made it safely to Nebraska, mom waiting. She sent a letter thanking me, promising to help other women.
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