While stopping to assist a girl with a flat tire late at night, I was shocked by something I discovered inside her car's trunk. With its hazards blinking weakly in the dark, a white sedan was sitting on the shoulder of Highway 42 when I spotted it at 11 PM. My initial plan was to ride right past, considering the late hour, my fatigue, and the forty miles remaining on my journey home. As I rode by, however, she suddenly appeared in my headlight. Clutching a tire iron, a tee…

“Not with him,” she said.

I looked at the handprint on Tyler’s shoulder again, the skin swollen and tender to the touch. This was not a playground tumble or a rough game of tag.

This was the kind of anger that left permanent marks on a child’s skin. I switched off the flashlight, letting the darkness swallow the evidence for now.

I helped the children stay bundled under the flannel blanket and gently pressed the trunk lid back down until it clicked shut.

Madison stood close to the rear bumper, her hands jammed deep into her oversized jacket.

“Where are you trying to go with a flat tire and no spare?” I asked.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a crumpled white napkin, smoothing it against the metal trunk lid.

A phone number was written on it in faded blue ink, beneath the name Evelyn. The paper was soft and worn at the edges, like it had been folded fifty times.

“Memphis,” Madison said. “Our grandmother lives there. She has a house with blue shutters on the outskirts.”