Across the parking lot, an old blue minivan pulled beside a fuel pump.
A silver-haired woman stepped out, stretched her back, and reached for the nozzle.
I walked toward her before I could lose my courage.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Which direction are you going?”
She looked at my dusty clothes, dead phone, and trembling hands.
“North,” she said. “Where are you headed?”
I glanced toward the highway.
“Anywhere but south.”
Her name was Ruth Mercer.
She did not ask too many questions. She bought me water, gave me half of her turkey sandwich, and allowed me to sit silently in the passenger seat while the gas station disappeared behind us.
After twenty minutes, she asked, “Are you running from someone?”
“No.”
The word caught in my throat.
Then I corrected myself.
“I’m running from who I become when I stay with him.”
Ruth nodded as though she understood exactly what that meant.
