I couldn’t just drive away. I couldn’t just leave her. But I am a 60-year-old woman with bad knees and a bad back. If that man in the sedan tried something, what could I really do to stop him?
I looked around frantically, praying for a police cruiser or a neighbor to step outside. That’s when I saw Silas.
Silas was a sanitation worker who handled the heavy pickup routes in our district. He was a mountain of a man, standing at least six-foot-four, with a thick, tangled gray beard and a deep, jagged scar running down the side of his neck.
The neighborhood mothers usually whispered about him. People instinctively crossed the street when he walked by. He never spoke, rarely smiled, and looked rough enough to scare the paint off a house. Honestly, I had always been a little intimidated by him myself.
But I didn’t have time for fear. I didn’t have time to judge a book by its cover.
