I remember how his hands shook only after the danger passed, how he laughed awkwardly when I tried to thank him, as if he’d only done what anyone would do. But not everyone stops on a dark highway. Not everyone kneels in broken glass. For years I carried his kindness like a quiet talisman—a reminder that strangers could choose to be good when no one was watching.
So when his mugshot appeared, when anchors dissected his history and strangers spat his name like a curse, I felt something crack that had nothing to do with him and everything to do with certainty. I don’t know what he did when he wasn’t beside my car. I only know what he did that night. I live in the space between those truths, holding both like sharp edges: the world’s monster, my momentary guardian, and the terrifying possibility that people can be both.
