The night I met Kimberly Jackson, I almost kept driving.
It was raining hard.
A silver sedan sat on the side of the road with its hazard lights flashing.
I was exhausted after another late shift at a marketing agency and wanted nothing more than leftover pizza and sleep.
Helping a stranger wasn't in my plans.
Then I saw someone inside the car with her head buried in her hands.
Something told me to stop.
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