The Highway (A Short Story)

Years ago, my husband and I were traveling on a narrow stretch of Route 66 late at night, heading into Flagstaff, Arizona, when we became the subject to a game two truck drivers were playing. We were in a 1966 six-cylinder mustang at the time, and we felt very vulnerable. The incident still weighs on me, so I decided to write a fictional account of the incident. I hope you enjoy it!

THE HIGHWAY

“Is there no light out here in this god-forsaken place” she said as they drove through the desert. It was almost midnight and fatigue had long since taken its toll on her. The road seemed endless, as it stretched across the flat terrain of the desert that held them captive. “I just want to be home,” she complained. She had an uneasy feeling that had nagged her for hours and filled her with a sense of foreboding. The car radiator was malfunctioning, so they could not use the air conditioner. They were hot and sticky but fear—as if some monster was lurking out there in the dark— kept her from rolling down the windows of the car to let the desert air in. They drove no faster than 40 mph to keep the radiator from boiling over and periodically turned on the heater to take the heat away from the engine so that the radiator would not boil over. All she could think about was that she did not want to break down in the middle of the pitch dark desert.

“I told you we should have stopped at a motel,” she said with a sour tone, blaming him for his insistence that they drive despite her fatigue and the radiator problems they had been having.

She tried to ignore the feeling of impending doom that overwhelmed her and instead thought of their new home.

“It will be so nice to be back in California and away from that one-horse Texas town!” She remarked.

As was characteristic, her husband grunted or shrugged at each remark, making her feel alone in her conversation. She gave him a look of disgust thinking that she may as well be talking to a wall. He was never there for her. Her life was like that—quiet, too quiet. She was a good dutiful wife but spent many hours silently recognizing that she may have done the unthinkable—married a man just like her father: withdrawn, quiet and sullen. The military draft had led her to this point. It wasn’t so long ago that she had thoughts of marrying a doctor, moving away from her home-town and settling in a small farming community some where in middle-America where she would raise children, teaching them how to be successful. Her husband was a pre-med student when they met and he had graduated with honors and had been accepted at UCLA School of Medicine. They decided to get married and she would work while he attended medical school. She was excited and happy and knew that she would reap a big reward after he finished. There was some sort of screw up though and by the time he found out that he had lost his student deferment, he was drafted. Now they couldn’t get roots anywhere. A war was looming and they were never in one city long enough for her to start a family and she had no intention of raising children in any of the horrible places they had been sent to.

“Jesus!” He gripped the steering wheel. She could hear terror rise in his voice as her focus was thrust back to the darkness of the desert and the uneasy feeling she had been trying to avoid. “What?” She looked at him for a clue.

It was then she realized that it was very bright inside the car and that they were accelerating rapidly.

“Why are you driving so damn fast?” She held onto the arm rest between them tightly. “You're scaring the hell out of me and I’m already on edge…just get me the hell out of this darkness and I’ll be fine.” She swung around to see what was lighting their car.

A scream came from somewhere deep inside her. Her mind was racing and she felt the wild throb of her pulse—reminding her of the time in high school when she was supposed to be at a football game but instead went to a party, drank booze with her friends and was hauled into the police station where they called her parents—she strained to see what was behind them but she could only see huge headlights that were so near that she feared a collision. She squinted and shaded her eyes with her hand, but the light was so intense that it hurt her eyes.

“What’s going on?” She screamed.

At that moment she realized they had no way of escaping because they were in the middle of the desert on a two-lane highway that had no shoulder or off-ramps. The truck accelerated and so did the car and the temperature gage began to rise.

“Idiot!” She yelled, thinking how crazy this situation was and wondering whether they had a maniac or a run-away truck on their tail. She felt like she was being swallowed and would perish without a sign, tumbling into the vast darkness of the belly of the monster she knew to be the desert.

“I can’t go any faster.” She saw a stream of sweat drop from his brow. "I don’t know if we will survive this.”

He was beginning to scare her now too. Was he going to just give up, she thought. She wondered where in the hell a cop was when you needed one—no doubt eating donuts and drinking coffee in some all-night drive-in.

Then the lights seemed to dim and she turned around to see what was happening. With tremendous relief she could see that the idiot was going to pass them. She had been holding her breath and her ribs and head ached and she wanted desperately to stop the car and get out.

As the truck drew to the side of the car, she strained to see in the cab so that she could identify the fool who had been terrorizing them, but she could only see the passenger door and no more. “Jesus!” Her husband yelled again. “I don’t believe it!”

She jerked around and there it was—another set of headlights bearing down on them, only this time they were completely blocked because the other truck—that she thought was going to pass them—was still in the lane next to them and now they were surrounded.

“Christ, they are playing chicken with us!” The perspiration now dripping down between her breasts.

She felt the sting of tears in her eyes and a wretched fear rising in her throat and she felt like vomiting. She prayed that another car would come long in the path of the big truck that stayed stubbornly beside them, but it was midnight and sensible people stopped at motels instead of risking the danger of the desert at night. They had not seen another car all night.

Her fear now turned to panic. She looked for comfort from her husband but saw that his hands were locked on the steering wheel and he had a look about him that made him look like a deer in the headlights. Her mind raced as she tried to calm herself to think. The car was beginning to shimmy as the accelerator hit 65 then 70 and the temperature gage was nearly all the way into the red zone. All she could think about was that the car was going to explode. She felt dizzy and disoriented.

It seemed like yesterday that she had announced she was going to get married. Her folks were delighted because they had struggled to raise a family and knew that marrying a doctor would mean that she would not have the financial worries they had endured. Her panic was turning to anger now because she felt cheated. She married a man who could not think on his feet. She resented that she had to try and figure out how to get out of this mess. She wanted reassurance from him. She wanted to feel protected and safe. He’s just like my father—the thought filled her once more. Thinking how she never really knew much about her father because he never talked and how her mother was the one who really took care of the family.

She thought that the situation she was in at present couldn’t get any worse, but she was wrong.

The truck to their left began to accelerate and signal that it was going to enter into their lane. She hoped that the ordeal was over, and that the truckers had their fun and would now find someone else to terrorize. She again felt some relief but only for a brief moment, because the truck behind them moved into the oncoming traffic lane and the two trucks slowed, making her wonder if they were going to stop. Then panic began to build again as she thought perhaps they might force her husband to stop the car, kill him and perhaps kidnap or worse rape her!

Oh god, she thought, I can’t take any more of this. She again looked at her husband for assurance, but as usual he had nothing to give. He looked as if he wanted to talk—his mouth gaping open and his eyes fixed on the rear-view mirror—but the words just would not come out. He looked directly at her and she saw pure terror in his eyes.

She jerked around as she realized that the car was well-lit and there she saw the cause of his terror—another huge set of headlights was now bearing down upon them. Now they could not go faster because their path was blocked by the truck in front, nor could they pass because their path was blocked to the side and they were going too fast to leave the roadway and ditch the car into the soft desert sands. Now they were being pushed by yet another huge truck that had just joined the fray. Her husband was now riding the brakes and alternatively using the accelerator as he jockeyed the car trying to keep from being hit from behind while trying to avoid hitting the truck in front—all the while being kept in harms way by the truck that was still in the lane next to them. She saw beads of sweat gather on her husband’s temples, periodically splashing onto his forearms and into his lap. She could see every muscle in his face and arms and the veins on his hands bulged as his blood pulsed through them.

It seemed like a nightmare to her. She wanted desperately to wake up and feel the exhilaration of knowing that this was only a bad dream, but she knew the reality of what was happening. She knew that her last few moments of life might be here in the god-forsaken desert. She thought about her life and many things passed through her mind. She looked at her husband, recalling how her heart raced the first time he kissed her and how she knew she would marry him. She began to realize that he had not caused the draft nor was he responsible for the loss of his deferment., but she had blamed him for her own disappointment. She began to wonder how disappointed he must have been because he had already put in many hard years of study to become a doctor only to be interrupted and possibly be sent off to war—and with the responsibility of a wife as well! She felt ashamed and selfish. She also realized that they had been involved in a life-threatening situation for several minutes and that despite her thoughts that she had to take care of everything, he was the one keeping them alive.

Tears stung her eyes once again and she turned to look out the window catching a glimpse of a road sign—something rarely seen on the desolate desert road—which read “Barstow 10 miles.” She realized at that moment that their ordeal would have to end soon or they would surely draw the attention of people in the town. She hoped that her husband could control the car until they made it to the city limits. It was only a few minutes later that the front truck began to move faster and the truck in the lane next to them was accelerating and signaling that it was going to move into their lane and the third truck began to move into the other lane to pass them. The couple slowed up now and watched as the taillights of the last truck glowed in the dark night like the red eyes of some hellish desert creature disappearing into the night.

They were speechless as they continued driving down the highway toward Barstow, silently praising the end to the terror they had endured. Soon they saw the welcoming sign that read: Barstow City Limits. They both wondered if they would have been as happy to see this dry desert town if they had not been involved in the life-threatening event.

They pulled quietly into the parking lot of the first place they came to and stopped the car. Her husband leaned forward resting his head on his hands—still gripping the steering wheel. It was then that she realized that she had been too terrorized to write down the license plates of the monsters that had nearly killed them. After a few minutes, her husband slowly got out of the car, resting against its side for a few moments before coming around to open her door. Feelings of guilt and selfishness swept over her once more as she saw him trembling and imagined that he may have been more concerned about her safety than his own as he fought to save their lives. He helped her out of the car and she felt her knees buckle and her body begin to tremble as she tried to stand. He caught her gently, bringing her up and holding her firmly against his body as he pushed back the damp ringlets of her hair and kissed her, whispering reassurance that their nightmare was over. She held him tightly, feeling safe in his arms and knowing that she had married a man of strength who would protect her always. The feeling of dread that she had experienced that night disappeared into the darkness just as the taillights of the trucks had and the warmth she now felt was not from the heat of the night but from her sense of well-being.

They walked toward the café taking solace in knowing that the horror of the night was over. Looking around all they saw were trucks—hundreds of them. They then realized that they had driven into a truck stop. Wondering if the truckers that had terrorized them might be here, they reluctantly walked toward the café and entered. All eyes were on them as they walked in. Looking around the room she tried to see if three truckers were sitting together, but it was a waste of time because they all sat in groups, talking and sharing road stories—even those sitting at the counter. She tried to guess which three were talking and laughing about how they had terrorized the couple as they drove through the desert. She felt sick and her head hurt. They sat at a table in a corner as far away from the drivers as they could get. Ordering a cup of coffee, they sat in silence still trying to recover from the shock of the past half hour.

As they sipped coffee, three young men entered the café together and walked toward the only remaining booth—which was back-to-back with the booth the couple had taken. As they approached, she felt tension building in her stomach again. The men were in their mid-thirties, clean cut and wore wedding bands. As she studied them closer, she wondered how married men could spend time on the road terrorizing young couples and how they would like it if someone terrorized their wives. They all looked tired and for some strange reason bore a resemblance to one another. They sat down with two of the fellows facing the other, directly behind her husband. They ordered coffee and sandwiches and when the waitress left, they began to talk.

The young couple strained to hear the conversation, learning that the truck drivers were brothers. They talked about how they learned to drive from their father and they were going to meet him in Los Angeles as he was a long-haul driver too and was going to join their caravan on the way back to the east coast where they all lived. The couple became absorbed in the conversation of the truck drivers—mostly because it seemed impossible that these three brothers would have been involved in terrorizing them. Then the conversation turned.

One of the brothers said that in all his years of traveling the highways, he had never encountered a couple so bent on dying. He talked about how slow the man he had encountered along the highway was driving and how, as the trucker approached, the man reduced his speed even more as if he knew it would be very difficult for a truck with such a heavy load to travel at such low speeds. The trucker talked of how he came upon the car suddenly and at a time when he was tired, hungry and hoping to make it to Barstow to meet his brothers at the truck stop—where they had previously decided to meet up for food and rest. He had encountered a lot of bad weather coming across Texas and New Mexico and he needed sleep. He had a heavy load and it was difficult to pass the slow moving car—which seemed to be driving erratically—so he followed it for a bit hoping that it would speed up. He said he saw the woman yelling at her husband too. He became concerned and using a CB radio, alerted his approaching brother about the couple and the man’s erratic driving behavior He saw his brother’s truck approaching in the distance and he thought it best to try to pass the slow car—despite his heavy load—and he shifted into gear and moved forward. The slow car accelerated though and he had to ride in the oncoming traffic lane, he could not move back into the lane because his brother was too close. He thought that if he could get past the slow moving car, he would be able to make some room for his brother or at least slow down to help him pass the car and his own truck. For some reason the slow car again accelerated even more as his brother started approaching and it was then impossible for him to get enough speed to pass the car. It seemed like the car was deliberately preventing him from passing. He was very worried that on-coming traffic might come toward him and he was constantly in contact with his brother for reassurance. His brother said that he would slow way down, thus allowing him to return to his position behind the slow car, but as he slowed down so did the car. So instead of falling in behind the car, the first truck was able to signal and move in front of the car in a safe manner. He was so shook up that once he was safely in the lane, he slowed way down. His brother then entered the on-coming traffic lane as he also tried to pass the slow moving car. As he entered the lane, he saw his other brother—the third trucker—now catching up to the caravan. The third truck had an even heavier load to deliver and he was now in contact with his two brothers, who were telling him of the maniac who was blocking their way and playing chicken with them and how the guy seemed to be terrorizing his wife because they saw her yelling at him.

As the third trucker approached the slow moving car, he saw it accelerating and saw his brother also accelerate. His brother sped up because he thought that the car was deliberately trying to hit him. The car seemed to speed up and then slow down, as if taunting them. The brothers felt sorry for the woman in the vehicle who seemed to be visibly upset. They drove on and watched for the first opportunity to finally be able to safely pass the man in the car—and also to get their brother out of the on-coming traffic lane. They found a break. The first truck slowed way down, causing the car to also slow and giving the second truck an opportunity to pass both the car and the first truck, leaving only the third truck to pass the maniac driving the slow car. All trucks were soon around the car and they sped up and were off—relieved that the frightening ordeal was over and hoping that they would never encounter such a trip again. They talked about their families and how lucky they were to have avoided an accident with the idiot in the car or a head-on collision.

Paying for their coffee, the couple sheepishly left the café.

The Thin Bears Of Summer (A Short Story)

As a preface to this story, I should say that a while ago I had a moment of writer's blank (as I've termed it) where I couldn't create a story title or theme, so I asked my dear understanding husband to simply throw a title at me. He is always so helpful: "Thin Bears Of Summer." He said. He was amused to see me tuck my head to my chin, laptop on lap and type furiously. Here is the result. It was a new experience for me to delve into a genre I call "noir" and some call "Goth." Enjoy.

THE THIN BEARS OF SUMMER

I’d always believed myself to be aggressive and unrelenting like the thin bears of summer that ravage and forage trying to curb their insatiable appetites that consume them following a long season of fasting. I’ve seen the bears roaming around in their sagging black fur, grabbing everything in sight to stave-off that gnawing hallow feeling of hunger. Once, we had such a mangy looking creature come into our apple orchard and devour Butch, one of our prized hunting dogs. Poor Butch tried to chase the bear, but he was no match and it only took one swipe of a massive paw to send Butch flying into the air like a rag doll. A chill escapes down my spine and despite the lack of air and tightness of my quarters I give into the shiver. I’m here alone fasting and hoping to rot away in my small cave. I want to show my capturer who is stronger. I want only to leave this sick bastard to his bottomless hell.

I saw him—more than once, too. That’s what irritates me the most. I should have known it was me he was after when I caught his beady eyes devouring me on those occasions. He was scrawny, boney, unable to handle direct eye contact—eyes darting away as if looking for something other than me. Now I know it was I, only now it’s too late.

Groggy hunger laced with noxious drugs he made me swallow, threatens to take me back into slumber, as I wonder why he chose me. How does one go about selecting a victim, I question, succumbing to a deep yawn. When he’s not looking at me, I survey him to look for a clue. He is anti-social in his behavior. His hair is matted and greasy, teeth yellowed and rotting from lack of hygiene, his fingernails ragged from biting them—nails that always have a thin line of embedded dirt showing through. I wonder where he lives—surely not here in this dark dingy hovel.

How are you to know the signs or evil in someone unless you’ve spent time with them? He must not have anybody close to him, because if he did they’d probably have him committed.

He caught me looking at him. He knows I’m judging him. I see him squirm until he tells me never to look at him again. He now ties a sour-smelling soiled thin-striped dishtowel around my eyes. My pleasure, I think while enjoying the smirk that I hide from him. If only his odor would dissipate, I’d erase him entirely.

I couldn't really afford the apartment, but it was in the middle of Manhattan. It felt so New York after twenty-four years on an apple farm near Walla Walla, Washington. I was willing to suffer the consequence: eating meals from McDonald’s, day old bread from the store and over ripe fruit. The big box stores provided cheap meals, too, like boxed macaroni and cans of vegetables. It didn’t matter. I was living in Manhattan. I’d watch myself in the reflection of huge business-front windows as I walked to work—unable to afford public transportation—admiring my savvy wool suit and smart leather briefcase—a graduation gift from my attorney-uncle—and, I reveled at the sound of the soft click of my thin leather patent heels striking the Manhattan sidewalk. Never mind my meager salary—I knew it could only go up. I had to start some place. I had talent and had easily passed the New York bar exam. I’d crash through that glass ceiling, with my goal of a partnership in a prestigious law firm once I got a little experience under my belt.

I’d actually caught him twice. That’s what’s so damn disturbing. Once had been near the office and the other so near to my apartment. There could have been other times and now I wonder how long he had really been watching me and what he was thinking as he lie in wait. The coward. His dirty fingernails make me want to puke. He’s weird. I don’t even want to know anything about him. I refuse to talk to him. He won’t get the satisfaction of knowing I’m afraid. I’ll just wait, like I waited for Manhattan. Watching my mother struggle as a farm wife, working side-by-side with dad, raising four kids and then struggling just to get me through college, made me want to succeed and sit at a desk with the world at my doorstep. I can’t remember the last time she bought make-up, had her hair done or bought anything special for herself. How selfish I’ve been. Things will be different for her once I’m a partner.

It’s funny; I’ve never been really hungry. Food was always abundant on the farm. I thought Mom was being overprotective warning me about big cities and their weirdoes. How’d she know? She’d only lived on a farm. She read mystery novels for her nighttime entertainment, and I thought she took them too seriously. I’ll figure it out. I’ve got a good head on my shoulders—well, some times. My judgment wasn’t good this time.

I couldn’t remember drifting off to sleep. It seemed like hours had passed, but I had no concept of time—it was always dark in my closet. I could leave only when my capturer came back and opened the door, allowing me to roll out into the room.

Before I had been blindfolded, I noticed there were no mirrors in this place. I could hear church bells in the distance occasionally, and I tried so hard to remember the sounds of Manhattan and the sound of bells. If I could just know where I am. Why doesn’t he have a telephone? That alone is abnormal. Nobody knows him. Nobody calls him. What does he do all day? How does he pay for this horrible apartment with no artwork or carpet, and very little furniture? All I can remember is the sound of traffic in Manhattan—unending, noisy, horn-honking traffic. I don’t remember church bells. Where am I? God, I want the noise of Manhattan. Why doesn’t anybody hear me banging when I know he’s not around.

When he told me to take my clothes off, I thought he was joking. He didn’t fit the profile of a sex pervert. I told him so—that was my second mistake. He must have been ridiculed all thirty or forty years of his life—I really couldn’t tell his age. That’s when he started making me swallow the pills. I couldn’t fake it. I tried. Parking the pill under my tongue or on the inside of my cheek—between my gums and cheek, only pissed him off and he’d double the dose and I wouldn’t wake up for several days. When I did, his odor became mine and I’d vomit because it made me sick to think of his dirty hands on me.

I can feel the bandage on my shoulder where he deliberately cut me. It hurts. I wonder if I needed stitches. Will I survive to worry about a scar on my shoulder? Will I need plastic surgery? Will I live through this? If I could just free my hands, I know I could escape.

I’ll change my strategy. I’ll find out everything I can about him. See if I can find something redeeming, to use against him. I try, he tells me to shut up. I try again.

Now, he won’t let me talk. If I talk, I have to take more medicine—medicine that induces vomiting. He’s nasty in his torture. That’s what he enjoys, he tortures for kicks. I wonder what he gets out of it? He transfers the torture of his miserable little nothing life to the torture of others by making them weak and defenseless.

I wonder if the cherished houseplants I’d bought—using money that would have bought a month’s supply of boxed mac and cheese—lasted more than a week. I had left the window cracked that morning, so it wouldn’t be too hot, but the plants weren’t hardy. Oh, what does it matter? Will I ever see Manhattan again? Smell it? Taste it? See myself in the reflection of the big business-front windows?

I can still feel the pointed cold steel tip of the blade he held to my back, when he took me by surprise. I knew better than to empty my trash late at night—but the place was so small and by mid-week the choice was clear, either I had to go or the trash had to go. If only I had waited until daylight, I know someone would have been around to hear my screams. The gash from the knife was painful and my healthy blood spilled so fast it was soaking my clothing and I could feel it. I worried that he might be thinking of murdering me, and so I decided to cooperate. Maybe I’d get lucky and someone outside the building would see that I needed help. It didn’t happen. Even on the subway. He made me wear a hat and hold my head downward so I couldn’t see where we were going. The tape he put on my shoulder burned and pulled and I could feel the wetness of my blood as the tape turned cold in the night air.

His calmness unnerved me. He has more experience in his line of work than I did in mine. I wondered what made him tick, why he wasn’t ordinary, and if there was really such a thin line between sanity and him. I don’t even know his name or where he lives or anything about him. Silence is all I know. I don’t even know what he does to me, though I can sometimes guess. He makes me sick. He’s so damned meticulous about everything he does. He’s like a watchmaker, who has to deal with the tiniest of details only he tinkers with the small stuff of kidnapping, torture and rape. He can’t even stand himself, so he drugs me so I can’t see how nasty he is and what he looks like beneath his shabby clothing. Does he fashion himself a prince or a wild lover? Does he pretend that I’m overwhelmed with desire for him? He’s sick. He never looks at me. He knows he’ll see repulsion on my face.

He rigged a drinking bottle with a long straw, like the ones I’d seen serious bike riders wearing on their backs while peddling around Manhattan. Mine was tied to a bed rail and when I was let out of my cage, I could drink. Oh, how I wish it were tied to my back as I peddled around Manhattan.

At first he tied me to the bed, where I spent the first week. Every day was the same. I’d eat, drink, use the bathroom, then return to my bed, swallow his rainbow pills and wake up because of the hammering pain in my head. That is, until I worked my hand free from one of the ties and was almost untied and ready for my escape when he walked in the door. I wondered if it were a test, ordinarily he wasn’t home early.

Now I spend my days locked in a closet, a very small closet. I no longer know how long it has been since my capture. I thought it would end in my death relatively soon afterward. I’ve lost track. I feel like a bear in hibernation. I’m lethargic, tired, drugged and don’t want to eat. I want to sleep. I want to forget that I am a slave, a sex slave for a depraved animal who knows that if he didn’t drug me, I’d take him, I’d squash him, pulverize him and rid the world of his uselessness.

I want to go home, home to Washington. I want to hear the chickens’ soft greetings, the lowing of the cattle and bleat of the sheep. I’ll sleep now. Winter will soon be over and then I’ll be hungry and I’ll ravage and eat. My mind culls through the bounty of food, the smell of the floral damp air of summer and I hear the click, click, click of my heels on the sidewalk.

I hear the gasping sobs of my mother and feel the rough hands of dad rubbing the back of my hand while holding it between his. He says nothing.

I feel like I’m in a spiral. I saw a movie once where a spiral spun around as someone lost consciousness. This time, though, I heard the muffled sounds of people I love. My only thought is that I’ve gone. My refusal to eat has killed me. I’m no longer going to be the subject of my capture’s fantasy. I don’t feel pain.

The swirling spiral makes me sick and I want to vomit and I try to put my hand to my mouth but I feel restrained. I hear my mother’s voice again. But she’s not crying, she’s yelling. What is she saying?

I hear the soft voice of a woman. Within seconds I drift calmly, floating like a feather. The last I remember is the sweet smell and feel of sheets against my skin, crisp. I feel something warm around my cut shoulder and it doesn’t hurt any more. Yes, I think, I’ve died. I’ve heard it’s like this.

Time passes and I have no thoughts.

I hear my mother’s voice, once more. The blindfold is no longer on. But, I’m so confused. I want to open my eyes, but I don’t want the feeling of comfort to end.

“Rosie. It’s me. Open your eyes.”

I obey. It’s real. “Wha—”

“Shhh. It’s okay. You’re okay. You’re safe.” I see the tears fill in her eyes and see them spill in a steady stream down her cheeks, and she never takes her eyes off me—she looks deeply into my eyes, she knows. She feels my pain.

“It’s over.” She says, draping herself across my chest and sobbing against me. I let her and I lift my left arm, the one free from the IV tubing in an attempt to console her. It’s then that I realize that my father’s large rough hand, now trembling, is holding onto me—just as he did when I saw small and he was afraid I’d somehow get loose from his grip and dash into the street. The lines were deep on his face and his blue eyes dark with worry. I was his first born, his pride and job—the new generation to leave the hard labor of farming, he’s said to me one day.

I hadn’t been the only one. His DNA match met found on seven other of his victims.

Someone had heard my weak pounding. The building had been abandoned and boarded up, but an elderly homeless man had entered to get out of the cold a few nights ago. He was well known on the cop’s beat, and the cop often gave the man money for hot coffee on a cold night. The cop never doubted the man’s story. As soon as his backup arrived, they found me. This time, someone was lying in wait for my capture.

He won’t hurt anyone again. He hung himself in jail. I’m grateful to not have to relive the ordeal through a trial. I’m also grateful for the caring way of a man I didn’t even know, or I too would have wound up dead.

I don’t empty trash or walk streets at night. I don’t live in Manhattan any longer either. I took the Washington bar exam and passed it. I have a small office in Walla-Walla and I send a check every month to a post office box on the outskirts of Manhattan to a kindly old man—a man who saved my life. He’s no longer alone and with the extra money I send, he’s able to live on his social security and is no longer homeless.

Living near my family has provided the ability to take as many opportunities as I can to pick mom up and take her to lunch, the beauty salon or whatever she wants to do.

I cannot forget what happened to me, but I can be grateful for my freedom and life—a thought that comes to me as I gently rub that small scar on my shoulder. I long for the day when women are no longer objectified but instead treated with respect and equality. My talents as an attorney are now directed toward that end. I’m hoping that the glass ceiling I break will be one that benefits all women—not just me.

I should also say, I enjoy picking apples during harvest—just for fun.