We had two children away at college, a comfortable home, and a small cabin near Cedar Lake that my father had left me. Friends often described our marriage as steady and dependable.
That Tuesday evening, I stopped for gas after finishing a long shift at St. Anne’s Hospital, where I worked as a surgical nurse.
The sky was already darkening, and only a few cars were parked outside the small convenience store.
A teenage boy sat beside the ice machine with a faded backpack between his knees. His sweatshirt was much too large for him, and his shoes looked worn thin around the edges.
When he noticed me looking, he stood but kept a respectful distance.
“Ma’am, I’m sorry to bother you,” he said. “Could I borrow your phone for a minute? I need to call my aunt. She was supposed to pick me up.”
I hesitated.
It was nearly dark, and I was standing alone beside the highway.
