I was filling up my Harley at a gas station off Highway 14 when I heard a girl’s voice behind me — thin, shaky, terrified. “Please, sir… please don’t do that. He’ll be furious. You don’t understand.”
I turned around and saw her standing beside a beat-up Honda that looked like it had survived one more trip than it should have. She was young — couldn’t have been older than nineteen or twenty — with blonde hair pulled into a messy ponytail. Mascara streaked down her cheeks. Her hands were trembling so hard she could barely hold the coins she was counting. Pennies, dimes, quarters. Maybe three dollars total.
I’d already swiped my card and started her pump before she realized what I was doing.
“Honey,” I said, “it’s already running. Nothing to stop now.”
Her eyes went wide with real fear, not embarrassment. “My boyfriend is inside getting cigarettes. If he sees this… if he thinks I asked you for help… he’s going to lose it. Please, please stop.”
