It was the same road my dad used to drive down before he was killed in a logging accident.
That was when everything fell apart.
The company he worked for barely covered funeral costs. What followed was a mountain of debt and no one to lean on. Mom lost the house, and then the car.
Eventually, all we had left was the trailer — a place where everything needed fixing — that had belonged to Grandma before she passed away.
Selling things, collecting cans, odd jobs — I did whatever I could to help out. It made me feel like I was doing my part, even if it wasn’t much.
That day, though, the market was dead. A few people glanced at the skateboard, and one guy offered me fifty cents, but I said, “No thanks,” because I knew it was worth more.
On my way back home, dragging my feet past cracked sidewalks and empty lots, I saw her.
She was standing alone near the intersection across from a pawnshop.
She appeared to be about 65, maybe older, wearing a long beige coat and dark sunglasses.
Something about the way she stood — rigid and uncertain — made me stop. I don’t know what it was, but something made me walk up to her, and that’s when I noticed that she seemed scared and confused.
So, I asked if she needed help.
“Ma’am? Are you okay?” I asked.
She didn’t move immediately.
Just kept facing forward, straight past me like I wasn’t even there.
Then she said quietly, “Could you help me cross the street?”
