The fog was so thick I had to creep along at 10 miles an hour. I passed a mile marker sign, then another, then finally a sign that listed a single gas station at the next exit. I rolled up the exit ramp, a right at the stop sign—praying no one was coming—and made it into the Citgo parking lot. I picked up my cell phone out of the cup holder. No service.

Fine. Might as well get out and get something warm to drink. I dug through the console for enough change to buy a coffee and went on inside.

“Do you have a bathroom?” I asked the attendant.

“Around the corner. Here’s the key,” he said, looking up from a newspaper. Great, no cell service and an outside bathroom.

I walked around outside and started to unlock the door, but it was already open. I flipped on the light switch, and there in the corner of that nasty little dark bathroom was a child. She was maybe five or six years old with long, tangled brown hair and a dirty face.

“What are you doing here, little one?” I asked in the softest voice I could manage having just been startled. I had a feeling that if I spoke the wrong way, I might scare her off like a stray animal.

“Mama told me to stay right here. She’ll be back in the morning.”

“Okay, where did your Mama go?”

“To work.”

“Well, where does she work?”

“I don’t know.”

“Okay, well I’m going to see if I can get you some help. Are you hungry?”

“A little bit.”

I ran back inside and told the man at the register about the unexpected bathroom guest. “Oh, that little rat! I’m sorry about that. I told her Mama not to leave her there!” he said, irritated.

“Well, no, it’s okay, but we need to call the police or DFACS or something, right? And she says she’s hungry.”

“Of course she is. Those two cost me too much. Take her a pack of peanuts off that rack and you best be getting on.”

“But…”

“I said you best be getting on. She’s not your problem. I’ll handle her.”

Shocked to my core, I walked backward a couple of steps and turned to walk back out to my car. I sat there in silence for a while, looking down at my hands on the cool steering wheel. I would have to keep driving and find cell service so that I could call for help, but I didn’t want to leave the girl alone. I looked up through the windshield and locked eyes with the man at the register. I knew I had to get her out of there.

I raced my car around the building, yanked the girl off the floor and told her she had to get in the car. I caught sight of the man running around the corner as I closed her passenger door. He caught me at my side of the car, and thick, calloused fingers grabbed at the edge of the door, prying it open. I turned around and donkey kicked him in the groin, slammed my door shut and put pedal to metal. “We’re going to find your Mama,” I said.

We lost sight of him in the fog pretty quickly. I nearly missed the ramp to get back on I-75N. I had to find cell service. The girl sat quietly without shedding a tear. She’s used to this chaos, I thought as we sped down the highway, me keeping my eyes on the dotted white lines in front of me as best I could. The visibility was only about fifteen feet. “We’ll get you something to eat soon. I know you’re hungry, but I had to get you safe. Away from that bad man. Do you know him?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Who is he?”

“Mama’s boss.”

It all became clear to me in the silence that followed. Her Mama must be a prostitute and he, her pimp. I lifted my phone out of the cup holder, taking my eyes off the road long enough to see that there was still no cell service. “HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONK!”

I jerked the steering wheel, luckily in the right direction. The Mack truck blazed past me in the mist. “You had better put on your seatbelt, child.” She did.

Just then, I heard a shot, then another, and a couple seconds later, felt the air going out of the back tire on the driver’s side. We rode even faster on the rim, trying to lose the bastard. We had just passed an exit and I could see nowhere to go but off the road. “Hang on tight.” I jerked the wheel to the right. The car went down an embankment and flipped twice. Please God, make a way.

We landed right side up, thank God, and I told the little girl to get out. “We have to run now.”

I held onto my phone and raced with the little girl through the trees back toward the last exit. The terrain was hilly and uneven and the underbrush tore at my pant legs. I held onto her tiny hand, grimy and cold. She couldn’t have even reached the sink back there in that abysmal place. It wasn’t long before we came to a clearing and a dirt road. Unbelievable. An unpaved road next to the Interstate.

I checked my phone again. One bar. I dialed 9-1-1. When the dispatcher picked up, I couldn’t hear her clearly and I was sure she couldn’t understand me, breaking up as bad as it was. I just prayed that they would be able to track us using GPS from my phone or something. Please, God.

We walked down the road, hoping to find a house with a friendly resident.

“You best leave that child with me and get on, ma’am,” the man said from behind us. All the blood ran out of my head as I realized he had caught up with us. I felt sick and turned around, trying to control my breathing. Please God, make a way.

“No sir. I’m going to get this child home safe.”

“Ain’t got no home, that ‘un. And I done told ye, she’s my problem. Not yers. Get on and we won’t have no more trouble.”

“I can’t do that.”

“We might have a problem then,” he said as he pulled his gun.

“Shit, Jim. Put that thang up!” came an elderly female voice behind us, then the sound of a shotgun being cocked.

“Aww, go own Edna! This bitch messin’ around what none ‘a her bidness. I ken take care my own!”

“Your bidness ain’t right, Jim, and both you and I know it. Now go own and I’ll take care a this,” said the old lady in curlers and house coat.

“Damn it, Edna,” he said just before he shot her in the arm. She returned fire quickly, hitting him right between the eyes. A fine shot for an old woman with one usable arm. He keeled right over backwards, his heavy head making a thud in the red dirt and sending up a cloud of dust.

“Y’all get own inside and we’ll call the law,” she said.

We sat down on her sagging floral print sofa while she phoned the sheriff’s department. The living room walls had 70s style wood paneling from floor to ceiling. The house smelled like cigarette smoke, baby powder, and Aquanet hairspray. There was a velvet painting of Elvis Presley beside her television with an ornately carved wooden frame and two shelves on the adjoining wall holding a dusty collection of curiosities. There was a bookshelf with no books, save a Bible and a Rand McNally Illustrated Atlas of the World. There were several photo frames with the store pictures still in them. In a tiny metal frame was a wallet size Olan Mills photo of a young boy with a bowl cut. He looked familiar.

I drew in a long sip of oxygen and blew it out, the first deep breath I had taken since stopping at the Citgo. I turned my head and saw that the girl was gently fingering the yarn in a crocheted afghan thrown over the armrest. Poor thing, she must not know what to make of all this. “Are you okay, darlin?”

“Yes ma’am. I’m glad my Granny found us.”