CHAPTER ONE — STEADY

Parksville before sunrise has its own kind of silence.

The sky is black, the roads are empty, and it feels like the whole world is paused except for a few of us—nurses, warehouse workers, first responders, and NEMT drivers like me. I’ve been doing this for months now: waking up at an hour that still belongs to the moon, driving clients to their dialysis appointments, therapy sessions, mental health visits, surgeries, and whatever else life demands.

It’s lonely sometimes.
Peaceful other times.
But always quiet.

After months of shuttling tons of personalities I narrowed my manifest down to what I’d call my faithful four. Out of these four regular clients, there was one I bragged on all the time.

Mr. Blank.

Sixty-six. African-American. Quiet. Respectful. “Yes, ma’am” type. He always called me “Mrs. Nicolle,” and something about that made him feel safe. Familiar. Old-school.

He was the opposite of the chaos I sometimes had to deal with.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Not difficult.

Just… steady.

He used to tell me he’d been a former football player back in the day — always laughing about how much he loved to eat, even though he stayed skinny as a rail. He’d joke that people teased him because no matter how much food he put away, his body never showed it.

Little details like that made him feel… whole. Human. Like an older Black man clinging to stories that made him feel strong, capable, still connected to who he used to be — even while his body was quietly fighting him every day.

He went to dialysis every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday at 5:45 AM sharp.
Never missed.
Never late.
Never off routine.

Even on the mornings he came out exhausted — dragging his feet, shoulders tight, moving like every joint had to remember how to work — he still pushed himself toward the car. He never sat in the front seat; always the back. Always easing himself down slow, breathing through the stiffness.

Every time, without fail, he’d say the same thing as he buckled himself in:

“I just gotta wake my body up. I’ll be all right once I wake my body up.”

And I’d nod, watching him try to convince his body to cooperate.

He would talk about how hungry he was — “I’m starving, Mrs Nicolle” — but when I’d ask why he didn’t eat before going to work, or why he didn’t at least rest a bit on dialysis days, he’d wave the questions away.

“I can’t sit still,” he’d say.
“If I go home and rest, I’ll never want to get back up again.”

Over different rides, he opened up little pieces of his routine. How he’d been without a car for five years and was trying to save every penny to buy one. How proud he was that his supervisor let him come in late on dialysis days as long as he worked at least half a shift. How he’d mapped out the perfect window to rush inside, change clothes, and walk the few blocks to the bus stop before it passed him by.

He’d explain it like it was nothing —
like walking in the heat after dialysis, catching two buses, and pushing through a work shift on an empty stomach was just normal.

And I’d sit there nodding politely, because he seemed so proud of the system he’d built for himself.

But in my head, I’d be thinking:

Sir… you’ve been in dialysis since six in the morning. You won’t eat again until almost one. You’re doing this three times a week. You’re exhausted… and still going to work.

But who was I to say anything?
I was just the driver.
So I listened.
And I showed up on time — sometimes early — because he always thanked me for it. It gave him a few extra minutes to make his routine work.

It made me respect him.
Root for him.
Feel protective of him.

I was his assigned driver, which meant any appointment he had — therapy, check-ups, dialysis, specialists — was mine to handle. And for weeks he kept reminding me about one big appointment coming up in Gatlinville — a full hour from Parksville. He’d say things like, “I’ll find the date, Mrs. Nicolle. I just want to make sure you’ll be free to take me.”

So when the day finally came, I drove him out there, dropped him at the hospital, picked up a few other members, then circled back later to get him. He was already outside waiting for me, standing in the heat in that quiet, patient way he always had.

The ride back was long — traffic, backroads, the whole thing — and somewhere between mile markers and exit signs, he opened up. He told me how long he’d been on the kidney transplant waitlist. How many years he’d been praying for a match. How they thought they finally found one. He didn’t have all the details yet, but the possibility alone made his voice lighter.

I didn’t cry, but something about that moment… it softened me.
It taught me something I didn’t know about dialysis patients, about the fight they wake up to every single day. It felt like witnessing a small miracle in real time — or at least the early tremor of one.

After that ride, I found myself hoping for him.
Praying for him.
Rooting for him in a way that felt personal.

Sometimes I’d think about the fact that he was here alone — his family in another state, him navigating all of this by himself — and I’d catch myself wondering if maybe I should invite him over for Thanksgiving. My mom and sister were coming to town, we’d be cooking too much food anyway, and he loved food. He loved stories about food. He loved talking about food.

It wasn’t anything deep.
Just kindness.
Just thinking he’d feel welcome.

He was someone I genuinely cared about.
Someone I trusted.
Someone I thought I knew.

​

CHAPTER TWO — SMALL THINGS

There is a tiny deli in the middle of Brinkle, Tennessee called Boyd’s Deli.

I pass it every single day when dropping off one of my other members. It’s in a town so small, so old, so white that the sidewalks feel like they’re watching you. I had never seen a Black or brown person in that area. Not walking. Not pumping gas. Not sitting in a car.

Every time I passed it, something in my spirit whispered, Not today. Not alone.
Because the town just felt… racist.
Like the type where you don’t know if the people inside will greet you with a smile or a slur.

So even though my stomach shouted every time I passed it, I never stopped.

One morning, though, I had to use the restroom — bad — and there was no way I could hold it for another hour to get back into town.
The deli popped into my mind immediately, because I’m a stickler about never using gas station bathrooms.

I pulled into the parking lot, parked, took a breath, and literally had my hand on the door handle, getting ready to step out when — out of nowhere —

Mr. Blank stepped out of the deli.

I just froze.
Then burst out laughing.

“Oh my God! Mr. Blank! What are you doing here?”

He smiled the way old Black men smile when they’re caught somewhere they enjoy.
He said he was on break. Delivering cars to an auction. Stopped for a sandwich.

And just like that—like God planned the timing—he became proof that the place was safe.

“Oh! So you’re the confirmation I needed,” I told him. “I’ve been wanting to try this place but you know—Brinkle is… Brinkle.”

He laughed.
“Aww, Mrs. Nicolle, it’s good. Real good. I love this place.”

I smiled, not knowing that tiny moment — that random deli parking lot run-in — would matter later.
But it would.

About a month after that, I started noticing little things.
Some mornings, he didn’t come right out like usual. He’d text:

“Give me a few minutes.”

And when he finally made it to the car, he looked worn down — not regular tired, but dialysis tired. Dragging. Moving slow. Talking about vomiting and diarrhea. Talking about cramps. Talking about how his stomach had been “acting up.”

It scared me a little, because kidney patients can crash fast.
But I stayed calm, just listening, asking if he felt okay, telling him to take his time getting in.

After I dropped him at dialysis that day, I couldn’t stop thinking about him — about how he’d said he was starving, about how he always said he’d “eat at work,” about how his body already seemed so worn out.

And then one of my other members canceled.
Suddenly, I had a gap in my morning.

So I thought, Let me stop at Boyd’s.

I remembered the sandwich he told me he liked — the one he bragged about in the parking lot that morning — and I grabbed two. One for him. One for me. And then I made it a little meal: chips, a soda, a small bag of candy. Nothing fancy. Nothing deep.

Just me being… me.

I’d just come off five years of caring for my grandmother, and sometimes that caretaking instinct would rise up out of nowhere. It wasn’t romantic. Not even remotely close. It was just kindness — that simple, old-school kind that doesn’t need an explanation.

After picking up another member and dropping her home, it was time to go get Mr. Blank from dialysis. He came out slow but smiling, talking small talk the whole ride to his apartment.

When we pulled up, he unbuckled his seatbelt and scooted toward the open door — one leg out, his bag on the sidewalk — giving me his usual “Thank you, Mrs. Nicolle, you be safe now.”

And right before he stepped out completely, I said:

“Oh — Mr. Blank! I forgot. I have a surprise for you.”

He froze, confused in the sweetest way.
“A surprise?”

“Yeah,” I said, handing him the plastic bag. “Something for you.”

He paused, looked inside, and immediately his whole face changed.

“Oh my goodness… oh my goodness… God bless you, Nicolle. This is so nice of you. Oh, my God.”

He was flustered, grateful, almost overwhelmed.

“I don’t know your schedule,” I told him, “but try to take a bite or two before you head to the bus.”

He nodded fast.
“I’ll try. I promise I’ll try. I really appreciate this. Oh my goodness, thank you so much.”

He held that bag like it was something precious, thanked me three more times, and finally went inside.
I drove off, not realizing that small moment—simple, innocent, thoughtful—would one day echo back in a way I never imagined.

Over the next few pickups, that sandwich became his favorite topic.
Every time he got in the car, he’d smile and say something like:

“Mrs. Nicolle, that sandwich was so good. I told everybody at work my driver bought it for me.”

I’d laugh it off, telling him it was nothing, that I drive past Boyd’s every day anyway.
But he’d just shake his head, still grateful, still talking about it like it made his whole week.

Then one morning, as we pulled away from dialysis, he said:

“I want to go back to that place. That day you saw me? That was my first time going. I’d never been there before.”

And I paused.

Just for half a second.

Because in the parking lot that morning, he’d told me he’d been there before.
No hesitation.
No confusion.

But I brushed it off.

People forget things.
People mix up moments.
He was sixty-six.

It didn’t feel like anything important.

Just a tiny inconsistency—there and gone.

​

CHAPTER THREE — SILENCE

Saturday.
November.
Dark. Still. Cold.

I text him like always:

“On my way, Mr. Blank.”
No response.

Usually I’d see that little “Read” stamp immediately.

But today, nothing.

I pull up to his apartment.
No lights.
No movement.
No door opening after two minutes… then five.

I call.
Straight to voicemail.
Call again.
Voicemail.

I get out and walk up to the door.
I have NEVER knocked on his door—not once in six months.

But today…
knock knock knock

Nothing.
knock knock knock
Nothing.

The NEMT training video flashed through my mind—
The one where a driver found a client unalive.
How the client’s daughter discovered it too and started screaming at the driver.
How traumatic it was.
How the driver quit after that.

That replayed in my head as I stood in the hallway staring at his silent door.

Eventually, I had to cancel the ride.
I called dispatch, reported the no-show, and drove off.

But the fear did NOT leave.

At 2 PM, I checked my phone.
Nothing.
At 4 PM.
Nothing.
At 7 PM.
Still nothing.

And then the guilt and panic hit me hard.

Because if he was inside that apartment… dead…
And I did nothing?
That would sit on me forever.

I sat on the edge of my bed with my phone in my hand…

I finally called my mom.

The moment she picked up, I didn’t even say hello.
I said, “Mama… I don’t know what to do.”

I told her everything — My voice kept cracking because the truth was sinking in: I might be the last person to have seen him alive.

She listened the way mothers do — quietly, but with that hum of concern underneath.

“Baby,” she finally said, “you might need to call for a wellness check — if he doesn’t come out Tuesday when you go pick him up.”

I swallowed hard. “Yeah… I know. It’s just— I’ve never been in a situation like this before. I don’t want to report somebody’s death. I don’t even know how that works. Do I call 911? Do I wait outside? Would I have to be there when they open his door?”

The nerves hit all at once — that tight, crawling fear in my chest.

We hung up, and that’s when my mind really took off.

What if he was already dead?
Right now.
In that tiny apartment.

And I was just… going on with my day.

The thought made my stomach flip.

I started picturing things I didn’t want to picture — the smell if his body lay there until Tuesday… the police opening the door and finding him… my name being the one tied to the call. All of it terrified me.

I kept pacing the room, phone in my hand, heart racing, when my friend called — just regular — asking about my next hair appointment.

I tried to answer normal, but it came out shaky: “Hey girl… remember the old guy I got the sandwich for?”

“Yeah, what about him?”

So I told her. Everything. How he didn’t answer. How something in me felt like he was gone.

She didn’t panic like I did.
She exhaled. “Girl, he’s probably fine. Stop scaring yourself like that.”

“I don’t know…” I said. “Something feels off.”

“If anything,” she added, trying to lighten the mood, “he probably got his transplant — you know he was close. Maybe he went in early and he’s just recovering.”

And for a split second… her words softened something in me.
Gave me just enough hope to breathe again.

Maybe he was in the hospital.
Maybe something good happened.
Maybe I was overthinking.

But deep — deep, deep down — in that quiet place your mind whispers the truth?

I knew better.

Mr. Blank would have texted me. He always texted me.
Even for little things.
Let alone something life-changing like a kidney transplant.

He would’ve said, “Good news, Mrs. Nicolle!”
He would’ve praised God.
He would’ve been excited.

And the fact that he hadn’t said a single word…
settled in my chest like a stone.

But still — her little ray of hope gave me just enough peace to survive one more night.
One more sleep.
One more attempt at not spiraling.

So I went to bed with my mind trying to choose hope…
while my spirit quietly whispered the truth:

Something is wrong.

​

CHAPTER FOUR — SEARCH

Sunday felt normal at first.

I woke up, moved slow, trying to shake off the heaviness from the day before. I ran a few errands. Folded some laundry. Let music play quietly in the background. But every so often, my mind drifted — not to the fear, not to the worst-case thoughts — just back to him.

To Saturday’s unanswered text.

To that silence that wasn’t like him.

At one point I drove past the gas station that sits not too far from his dialysis clinic, and something about seeing it pulled that worry right back up. Like my brain whispered, Check again.

So I did.
I checked my phone.
Read receipts still stuck on the last message from Saturday morning.

No response.
No explanation.
Nothing.

I tried to shake it off. Told myself, Let it go, Nicolle. Let it go for one more day.

But my mind wouldn’t cooperate.

It kept circling back to that training story — the one about the former NEMT driver who knocked on her client’s door and found them dead. Found them with the client’s daughter screaming in the hallway. Traumatized. Quit the job after that.

That story had lived in the back of my mind since day one.

And now it was knocking again.

By late afternoon I still hadn’t shaken the feeling. It was like my thoughts were bullying me into doing something — anything — to get an answer. Not for closure. Not even for peace.

Just to know.

Just to breathe.

And then it hit me:
What if he really was in that horrible car accident from Thursday?

It was such a small thought. Quick. Passing. But it stuck.

So that evening — after hours of pacing, overthinking, and replaying yesterday in my head — I finally sat down, opened my phone, and typed his name into Google.

Pressed search.

And my whole world stopped.

A mugshot.
Then his full sex offender registry profile.
Then the list of charges — long, disturbing, spanning almost two decades:

2006 — Indecent Exposure
2007 — Aggravated Sexual Battery
2007 — Sexual Battery
2015 — Burglary
2016 — Violation
2017 — Violation
2018 — Violation
2025 — Illegally Residing with a Minor (Arrested 11/14)

My hand flew to my mouth.

That 11/14 date stopped me cold.
It meant he hadn’t been rotting on his kitchen floor.
He hadn’t been getting a new kidney in that fancy hospital.
He’d been arrested — for violating parole — just one day after I dropped him home.

I sat at my desk, so many emotions rotating within me.

Shock.
Fear.
Disgust.
Confusion.
And then more fear layered on top of that.

My Achilles heel has always been child safety. I hate anyone messing with minors. Kids are still developing. Still vulnerable. Still trusting.

And when I did the math — realizing he was forty-six or forty-seven when he was first charged — my stomach turned.

Good and grown.
Messing with a minor.
Absolutely unacceptable.

But the newest charge:

Illegally residing with a minor.

My mind spiraled so fast it scared me.

His apartment is tiny.
Like a motel-style unit.
No stairs. One room basically.

If he opened that door wide enough, I could see almost everything inside.

So how?
How was he living with a minor?
Was a child staying with him?
Was he hiding them?
Did they catch him during a home check?
Was he holding someone against their will?

I couldn’t breathe.

And then — like a slap — another memory flashed:

That day I had Zack’s booster seat behind me instead of the trunk.
The way his eyes landed on it.
That strange mix of fear and something else I couldn’t name at the time.
But I felt it.
And it felt wrong.

I closed the tab.
Opened it again.
Closed it.
Opened it again.

This man had been inches from me.
In the dark.
At 4:45 a.m.
Behind me.
Alone.
Six months straight.

My hands were shaking as I screenshot everything and emailed my supervisors. I removed myself from his schedule immediately.

But even after that, I wasn’t done spiraling.

I texted the screenshots to my stylist-friend — the same one who’d comforted me the night before — and then I called her.

She hadn’t seen the pictures yet. “Hey girl!” she said, cheerful.

“Please,” I whispered. “Look at what I just sent you.”

She opened them.

“What is this?” she breathed.

We unpacked it together. Charge by charge. Year by year. Violation by violation.

She tried to stay positive.
“It could’ve been a girlfriend with a kid. Maybe they fought and she reported him. We don’t know the story.”

But none of it made sense.
He’d never mentioned a girlfriend.
Never hinted at anyone living with him.
For six months he spoke like a man who lived completely alone.

A child in that apartment made no sense.

I can’t stress enough how tiny that place was — motel-tiny. One door, two small front windows, everything close enough that even from my car, I should’ve noticed something in six months if someone else lived there.

Two silhouettes instead of one passing behind the blinds in the morning.
But there was never a second shadow. Ever.

Every time I texted “I’m outside,” he turned off all the lights before he came out.
If someone else lived there, they wouldn’t be sitting in the dark.

At drop-off, he always had to unlock the door himself.
He never knocked, never paused for someone to open it, never said “I’m home,” and no one ever opened the door because they heard me pull up — which is exactly what would happen in a space that small if he weren’t alone.

And the food made even less sense.

If he lived with a woman — especially one with a minor — somebody would’ve made sure he wasn’t leaving hungry every single day.
He would’ve mentioned something like, “Oh yeah, my lady friend packs me a little something for the bus,”
or, “I told my partner about that sandwich you got me.”

But instead, he said he told his coworkers.

And the more I replayed everything I’d seen — and everything I hadn’t — the harder it became to ignore the truth staring me in the face.

Which made the new charge — “illegally residing with a minor” — sit even heavier. Because if no one lived there… then where was the minor? And why were they there? And God forbid… were they there against their will?

The thought made my skin crawl.

Then I called my mama.

Her voice went from curious → confused → horrified in ten seconds.

“WHAT? Oh my Lord… you cannot go back over there. Why would your job put you in a car with someone like that?”

She was upset. Protective. Shaken for me.
Especially because one charge — the one highlighted red — was specifically against children.

After I hung up with her, I sent the screenshots to my prayer-partner friend. She called me immediately, more spiritual and steady, but still disturbed. “Nicolle… you need to be careful. This isn’t random. God showed you who he was for a reason.”

And the moment she said it, something in me settled — not peace, but clarity.
I wasn’t overreacting. I wasn’t imagining things.
I was being protected.

Then I texted two of my old coworkers from Texas. They didn’t even need all the details. Their responses came quick, sharp:

“What in the world??”
“Girl, PLEASE be careful.”

By the time all the calls and texts were done, I felt sick.
Violated.
Shaken.
Like the ground under me had shifted.

And even though I’d removed myself from his schedule…

…I knew this wasn’t over.

Not even close.

​

CHAPTER FIVE — SCREENSHOTS

Sunday night had shaken me in a way I wasn’t prepared for.
After I found those charges, I couldn’t settle.

I was scared.
Paranoid.
Jumping at shadows that weren’t there.

My mind kept replaying every Lifetime-movie scenario I’d ever seen — kidnappings, hidden victims, men who seemed harmless until they weren’t.
I couldn’t help it. I was in shock, and it sat in my body like ice.

But as the days passed, life pulled me back into routine.

Monday came with early-morning pickups.
Tuesday came with long drives and full schedules.
By Wednesday, I was knee-deep in everyone else’s medical appointments, therapy sessions, questions, and delays.

And little by little… the fear let go of me.

I was still disturbed — of course — but I wasn’t spiraling anymore.
No one was texting me about it.
No one was talking about it.
Work wasn’t asking for details. They’d simply emailed me back Monday morning saying, “He’s been removed from your manifest.” No questions. No investigation. No concern. Just… done.

And honestly, that made it easier to let the whole situation drift into the background.
By midweek, Mr. Blank wasn’t crossing my mind the way he had on Sunday.
The panic had faded.
The dread had quieted.

That night, I was scrolling on my phone, distracting myself, when suddenly—

his name slid across my screen.

I dropped the phone and froze.

It felt like the air got sucked out of the room.
That same fear from the weekend — the fear that had been slowly calming itself — came flooding back so fast my heart actually jumped.

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t answer.

The phone rang until it stopped… then the voicemail alert came through immediately.

I tapped it with my thumb shaking.

His voice sounded… different.
Polite but...
Serious.

Not the sweet, “God bless you” tone.
Not the cheerful old-man voice he always used.

This voice had weight in it.
Almost like he was choosing each word carefully.

“How you doing Miss Nicolle - this is Blank Blank your pick up person. Could you give me a call if you can tonight it is very, very important. And…And I’m trying to reestablish my ride for tomorrow. Yeah, because it was canceled. Thank you so much take care. Look forward to hearing from you bye-bye. Thank you so much take care. Look forward to hearing from you bye-bye.…”

At the end of his message, I heard a woman’s voice in the background.
Authoritative. Giving him instructions.

“Do you need to call headquarters?” she asked him.

He said “No,” while pushing all the wrong buttons to end the call shortly after.

I just sat there listening to my own heartbeat pound in my ears.

Before I could even settle my nerves from the voicemail, the next thing happened:

He texted me.

The message came fast, like he sent it the second he hung up the phone:

“Hey There Mrs. Nicolle, this is Blank Blank, I’m Truly Sorry for this inconvenience, I’m at home and scheduled to go to my Dialysis Treatment tomorrow. I called my insurance, to make sure that they knew I wanted to reschedule my regular appointment with my Dialysis Treatment. So I hope to hear from you hopefully tonight and for sure tomorrow. I really look forward to hearing from you and seeing you soon. Take care, be careful and safe in your travels. Take care. Blank 🙏💖😇😊.”

Reading it didn’t make me feel better.
It made me feel sick.

Because now I felt conflicted.

I kept thinking:

He’d just gotten out.
He probably didn’t have another ride.
Dialysis is first thing in the morning — before the buses, before insurance opens, before anything.
What if he misses it again and now that’s 3 days without his treatment?
What would that mean for his chances at that new kidney?
What if, what if…what if?

I felt torn in half. So this time I only reached out to my Texas friends and my prayer friend.

I stared at his message for a long time before I did anything.
My whole chest felt tight again — the same fear from Sunday, creeping back in slowly, quietly.

I didn’t respond right away.
Instead, I screenshotted his text and sent it to my two friends in Texas.

Me: “Y’all…What if I just take him Thursday one last time and then that’s it?”

I watched the typing bubbles come and go.

Texas Friend #1:
“Nic… NO. Please don’t.”
“You too nice.”

Texas Friend #2:
“Girl, this not your assignment.”
“Don’t let guilt make you do something unsafe. He has a list of serious charges. You don’t know this man.”

Their messages hit me hard, but not enough to settle me.
I was still torn — still pacing the floor — still hearing my own heartbeat in my ears.

So I sent the screenshot to my prayer friend too.
She didn’t sugarcoat anything.

Prayer Friend:
“Hopefully he’ll call his insurance for the ride.”

Which was her sweet, soft, prayerful way of saying: Don’t go. Please don’t go.

I sat there gripping my phone, going back and forth in my mind.
Talking to God.
Talking to myself.
Trying to reason my way through a decision that felt impossible.

Because my friends were right.
Every single one of them.

But then there was the other part of me — the part that hated the idea of intentionally hurting somebody.
The part that didn’t want to feel like I was punishing him.
The part that kept whispering, “He still needs dialysis… he still needs help… you’re his only ride that early…”

It was a tug-of-war between logic and compassion.
Between fear and conscience.
Between being smart… and being “too nice.”

I sat there for a long time trying to figure out the safest thing to do.

So I grabbed my phone and sent him a text —

“Hi Mr. Blank!!

I’m so glad to hear you’re okay — I was honestly concerned when you missed your last appointments.

I can take you to dialysis in the morning so you don’t miss another treatment. 🙃

However, I won’t be able to pick you up afterward, as today was actually my last day driving for NEMT but I promised Miss Deell I’d get her to her appointment in the morning so you can just join the party 🥳

I recently accepted another position, and with winter weather coming in, I’m stepping away from the road.

NEMT and your insurance will make sure your rides are reassigned so you’re taken care of moving forward. But I know you’ll stay on top of them! 🤭😆

I’ll see you in the morning.

Take care tonight.

– Nicolle”

He read it immediately.

And didn’t respond.

Which… that was strange.
Because he always responded.
Always.

That silence felt louder than his voice.
Louder than his voicemail.
Louder than everything.

Now, instead of being scared he was hurt…
I was scared he might be upset.

I went back and forth in my mind all night.
What if he figured out that I was lying?
What if he gets in my car mad?
What if he asks questions I’m not ready to answer?
What if…
What if…
What if…

I didn’t fall asleep until almost 1 AM.

​

CHAPTER SIX — BEFORE DAWN

My alarm hit like a punch at 4:00 AM.

I stared at the ceiling for a few seconds, trying to figure out what decision the “overnight version of me” had made. But the truth was, I still didn’t know.

I checked my phone.
No message.
Still nothing from him.

Part of me had hoped he’d cancel.
Say, “Don’t worry about it.”
Save us both.

But at 4:46 AM, I gave in and sent:

“Good morning Mr. Blank. Just checking in before I head out to Miss Deell’s. Hope you’re okay.”

This time, he responded — quickly.

“Looking forward to seeing you. You gonna be on your way.”

My stomach dropped. I start my engine and pull out my driveway.

I dropped Miss Deell off like normal, but as soon as she closed the car door my nerves were shredded.
I was thinking one thousand things at once, none of them good.

Because picking him up…
This wasn’t going through dispatch.
My JOB didn’t know.
My MOM didn’t know.
Only THREE people knew where I would be and they all lived out of state.

And then more thoughts came harder and faster:

What if he gets in the car with a weapon?
What if he’s angry because you’re dropping him?
What if I die today because I disobeyed God?
What if… what if… what if…

I could feel my chest getting tight as I approached the light right before his street. Tears streaming down my face.
My hands were sweating on the steering wheel.

I texted my Prayer friend.

She sent back a praying-hands emoji.
No words.

I then texted his address to her phone.
Just in case.

Then I pulled onto the street where he lived and whispered to myself:

“God, please protect me.”

I sent the text:

“I’m outside.”

And then I watched his door.

​

CHAPTER SEVEN — 3 MINUTES

The door opened.

And even though it was just a regular door, opening the same way it had opened a hundred times before, this time it felt different. Heavy. Slow. Like a scene where everything is quiet except the sound of your own heartbeat.

He stepped out into the cold, locking the door behind him.
He looked… mean but nervous. No smile.
Embarrassed, almost.
And that alone made my nerves spike, because I didn’t want him sensing anything off of me.

I quickly wiped my tears and forced a smile.
I forced cheer in my voice.

“Oh my gosh, Mr. Blank! You scared me on Saturday! I thought something bad had happened! I knocked on your door three times, I was panicking!”

He gave this awkward little laugh — the kind people give when they’re trying to act normal but everything inside them is shaking.

“Yeah… yeah… sorry ’bout that, Mrs Nicolle.”

He slid into the backseat, and I could feel myself stiffen. Watching him like a hawk through my rearview mirror.
His hands trembled slightly as he struggled to buckle the seatbelt.
I kept talking — not because I wanted to, but because silence felt dangerous.

“I was so worried. You never miss dialysis. You always text me. I didn’t know what happened.”

He nodded.
But he didn’t look at me.

Then he started talking.

But it wasn’t right.

His voice was very very low, shaky, stumbling all over itself.
Words coming out in pieces.
Storylines tripping over each other.

He said something about his sister.
Then something about not having his phone.
Then losing his phone.
Then his sister “picked it up.”
Then something else that contradicted all of that.

I just drove thinking:

He’s a trash liar.
This doesn’t make sense.

But I didn’t want him to know that I knew something wasn’t adding up.
So I played supportive.
Light.
Chatty.

“Oh wow… okay… that’s scary. I really thought something happened. I’m glad you’re okay.”

He swallowed hard, staring ahead like he was trying to come up with the next part of the story.

Then he said, slow:

“Mrs Nicolle… I’m gonna be honest with you.”

My heart jumped — not from fear, but from anticipation.

Finally.
Finally he was going to say something that made sense.

I sat up to see him more clearly in the rearview mirror, waiting.

“I got into a fight… and had to go to the hospital.”

…

I blinked.

A fight?

The hospital took your cell phone?

But I didn’t let anything show on my face.
I just said:

“Oh wow, okay… I’m glad you’re alright.”

Inside, everything in me said:

This is O.N. is really a bonafied liar.

But then something shifted.

Somewhere between his stumbling story and his nervous rambling,
the fear I had felt earlier — the fear he would hurt me or lash out —
it just… slipped away.

Because he wasn’t confident.
He wasn’t calculating.
He wasn’t smooth.

He was scrambling.
Panicked.
Unprepared.

And a man who is panicked and unprepared is not a man who is plotting.

By the time we were halfway there — which was only like 90 seconds into the drive — he was tripping over his own lies so bad I almost felt secondhand embarrassment.

As we turned the corner toward the dialysis building, he finally seemed to calm down enough to ask:

“So you… movin’ on to something new? A new job? What you gonna be doing?”

I kept my answer vague.
Soft.
Safe.

“Oh, you know… just something with better hours. I wasn’t planning on driving during the winter months, especially out toward those stick areas.”

He nodded, accepting it.

Then he said:

“Well… we still got each other’s numbers. We can keep in touch. You can’t forget about me now. We can go get something to eat one day.”

I smiled politely.
My favorite practiced smile.

“Oh my goodness, YES Mr. Blank.”

But in my mind:

Absolutely not.

We pulled up to the entrance.
People were outside.
The building lights were bright.
It felt safe — public.

He unbuckled.
Paused.

“Do I need to sign for the ride?”

I turned slightly in my chair to get a good look at his face, “No Mr. Blank - this mornings ride was on me. Didn’t want you missing another day of dialysis.”

He lowered his head in what looked like shame, then said softly:

“Can I get a goodbye hug?”

I tensed up immediatly but noticed him watching for my reaction so I quickly adjusted. I stepped out the car and I gave a quick side hug.
The kind you give when people are watching.
And they were.

He stepped back.
Looked at me with that half-embarrassed, half-grateful expression.

“Well… good luck on your new endeavors.”

“You too, Mr. Blank.”

He walked inside.

And the moment those doors shut behind him, I locked my car with a click so loud it could’ve echoed.

Then I pulled out my phone.
Opened our message thread.
Pressed Block Contact.

And I drove off.

My hands were shaking.
But not from fear.

From relief.

From clarity.

From knowing I had done the right thing — the humane thing — without putting myself in danger.

From knowing I could look God in the face about it.
Because I didn’t punish him.
I didn’t mistreat him.
I didn’t judge him like I had some kind of authority over his life.

I got him where he needed to go.
Safely.
Respectfully.
One last time.

And then I walked away.

Light.

Free.

Done.

​

CHAPTER EIGHT — HEAVEN OR HELL

A month had passed before I thought about him again.
Not intentionally — just one of those quiet mornings when your mind wanders into old rooms you’ve already walked out of.

I wasn’t creeped out anymore.
I wasn’t confused.
I wasn’t replaying conversations or trying to make sense of what didn’t make sense.

I was simply… still.
And in that stillness, curiosity tapped gently instead of urgently.

So I looked again.

And this time, things were different.
Updated.
Shifted.

A month ago, the charge had read ‘Sex Offender – Illegally Residing With a Minor,’ but when now, it had been updated to ‘Sex Offender - Residential and Work Restriction Violation’ — and DISMISSED.

The words that once hit like a punch — the ones that made my heart drop into my stomach — were no longer there.
In their place was something else.
Not innocent, not light, but clearer.
A violation tied to work restrictions. Something that fit what I knew about his life, something less earth-shaking than what I originally saw.

It didn’t rewrite his past.
It didn’t undo the harm he caused.
It didn’t turn him into someone I should’ve trusted.

But it did something quiet: it settled me.

Because the real miracle wasn’t the updated wording — it was the realization that God had already covered me. Long before I ever searched his name. Long before I saw a single line of that record.
My home.
My peace.
My circle.
Already protected.

And that’s when the truth snapped into place:

Compassion is not a key.
Kindness is not an invitation.
Grace does not equal access.

You can help someone without ushering them into your life.
You can be decent without being available.
You can honor God without sacrificing yourself.

Some choices reflect your heart.
Others protect it.

I wasn’t there to judge him or assign heaven or hell — that was never my job.

My job was choosing me.
Choosing safety.
Choosing the quiet wisdom of walking away.

So I closed the browser.
Closed the curiosity.
Closed the door for good.

Not heavy.
Not afraid.

Just grateful.

​

And with that, Mr. Blanks story finally stopped living in me.