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What started as a simple fuel stop on my Harley turned into a moment that could have ended in tragedy. I’d been on the road for most of my forty-three years, and I’ve learned to trust the tension in the air before the mind catches up to it. That’s exactly what happened when I heard a quiet, trembling voice behind me — the kind you don’t forget once you’ve heard it.
A young woman stood by a beat-up Honda, tears streaking down her cheeks, clutching a handful of coins as though they were everything she owned. “Please… don’t fill it up. If he sees, he’ll think I begged you.” Her voice cracked on every word. I didn’t know her name yet, but the fear in her eyes told me more than she realized.
She looked barely twenty, shaking so hard she could hardly stand. Her tank was bone-dry. She whispered that her boyfriend only let her buy “whatever the coins covered” — usually half a gallon, sometimes less. Just enough to trap her into coming home. I’d already swiped my card at the pump before walking over, and when the machine clicked off with a full forty-two-dollar tank, she stared at the number as if it were a ticking bomb.
“He’s going to lose it,” she choked out, eyes darting toward the store entrance. That’s when I noticed the bruises — fingerprint-shaped, yellow and purple, climbing up her arms.
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