Case number #4 - Bill Chance
My wife and I picked up a pretty young female hitchhiker.
It was getting late, and although the storm had eased off, the road we drove on was long and lonely, with ominous, dense forests on either side while more dark clouds gathered above.
I was pleased the hitchhiker girl had a red flashing light pinned to the back of her rucksack because the car in front of us narrowly avoided her.
“He’s probably drunk, Lisa.”
“She got lucky.”
I drove past the girl, leaving a wide berth so she felt safe and ready to react to any request from her for help. She wasn’t thumbing a lift, another reason to admire her common sense, but darkness would fall soon, and there seemed no destination nearby she might be headed for.
Lisa said nothing about the lonely hitchhiker, and neither did I, but when we pulled into the gravel driveway of our second home, a rustic farmhouse in the countryside near Toulouse, France, my wife tapped me on the arm and frowned.
“I’m worried about that girl, Karl.”
“Me too, sweetheart.”
“The night is drawing in, and she’s in the middle of nowhere.”
“It looks to me like the rain is heading back our way, too, Lisa.”
“Can we check in on her, please?”
“Of course, honey.”