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!”
She didn’t lower the tire iron. “I don’t need help. I’m fine. Just leave me alone.”
But 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 gentle 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.”
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