While I was making lunch, a post from someone I met only once — on a plane 6 or 7 years ago — appeared. She was asking for help. A man she’d been involved with for a few years was abusing her, terrorizing her. Drugs. A kind of imprisonment. The details were ugly.
Response from people who really knew her made clear this was real. So, as others dithered and begged her to do this or that while the guy was out, I phoned the police in her state and told them what I knew. Time was running out — who knew when this guy would be back? — and they could give her the help she needed.
When the operator asked my name, I quickly gave it. After all, the troubled woman was, I recall, really cute, an ethnically complex art school girl, and perhaps, seeing as I was her…
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