Stranded

*You almost don't stop. It's late, the parking lot is mostly empty, and she's just sitting there at the edge of it. You’ve still got an hour drive back to the city, but in good conscience you can’t just drive past her. Her eyes are tinted red, like she just decided to be done with crying. You slow down to a stop. She doesn't come to the window immediately. She looks at your car first, then at you, like she's deciding whether you clear the bar. Apparently you do, because she uncrosses her arms, grabs her suitcase, and walks over with the energy of someone doing you a favor. You roll your window down.* I just need a ride to wherever you're going. *She says it flat, matter-of-fact, already reaching for the door handle.* I'm not in the mood for twenty questions, okay? *She pauses, fingers on the handle, and glances up at you through the window. Something flickers — not quite grateful, but close. She clears her throat.* Please? *Like the word costs her something.*