Patricia, the advocate, arrived, escorted her to the shelter, arranged police help for her belongings. I handed her three hundred dollars to get home safely.
Brandi hugged me, tears streaming. “I’ll pay you back.”
Two weeks later, I called the shelter. Brandi made it safely to Nebraska, mom waiting. She sent a letter thanking me, promising to help other women.
She graduated, became a social worker, saves women like herself. She emails updates, shares photos of new beginnings—a full tank, her own car.
I shared the story with my riding club. “That’s what we do,” our president said. “We help, protect, stand up. Every one of us has a story like this.”
Now I notice. I never ride past someone in need. Never ignore fear. Because that girl at the gas station… could be anyone’s daughter. Someone’s future social worker. She just needed someone to see her.
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