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"Thank you."

"No problem. I’m Mark, by the way."

"I’m Claire," she responds. "It was nice to meet you. Thanks again."

And with that, she’s back in her vehicle and driving away as I slide into my car and wonder what the hell just came over me.

CHAPTER THREE

CLAIRE

The radio host’s voice crackles through the car speakers, somehow simultaneously cheery and serious. It’s a strange mix that seems inappropriate given the dire predictions they’re making.

"Snowmageddon is on its way, Chicago," the host says. "We’re looking at at least twelve inches tonight, with high winds and whiteout conditions. Stay inside if you can, folks. It’s going to be nasty out there."

Meanwhile, I’m sitting here in a Whole Foods parking lot wondering if there’s anywhere I could park overnight that’s covered, won’t get me towed, and won’t cost a ton of money. I doubt I’ll have any luck unless I drive through the suburbs, but money is tight and I need to save all the gas I can. I’m supposed to be working tonight, but they’ll likely close early.

I stare at the receipt on the dashboard. Mark’s handwriting is messy but legible on the blank side, noting hisphone number and address.

I don’t know why I haven’t thrown it away.

Actually, that’s a lie. I know exactly why I haven’t thrown it away; Because I’m considering his offer, which might make me insane. He’s a total stranger who, frankly, looks like he belongs in a biker gang. However, he did save me, and he didn’t pressure me to contact him. Just gave me his information and left as quickly as he swooped in to save the day.

Maybe I’m the problem here. Of course, I’m not wrong to be hesitant in trusting strange men, but I shouldn’t be so judgmental. That familiar edge of guilt—one I’ve lived with my whole life—twists in my stomach. I’m no better than anyone else, and here I am judging someone who was probably just trying to help.

I’m sitting here homeless, freezing, and alone in an old van—one that technically belongs to my father, not me—casting judgment like I have any right to do so, especially after the events of the last few months.

Trying to decide what to do, I grab the receipt and fidget with it, turning it over in my hands and reading the list of items he bought.

Toothpaste, coffee, laundry detergent, chicken, pasta, and a few types of vegetables.

What am I doing? Trying to figure out if his grocery shopping list makes him seem "safe" enough to stay with? I shake my head. Seriously, it’s not like I’d be able to tell from a grocery list if he’s dangerous or not.

The morning light is gray and weak, barely filtering through the thick clouds that seem to hold the threat of what’s coming. I haven’t felt warm in days, having been trying to conserve gas by keeping my car off as long as possibleand huddling under blankets in the backseat at night. The thought of sitting through this storm in my van is quickly becoming harder to stomach.

I can do this, I tell myself. This is better than home. This is freedom.

But is it?

I’m barely surviving, living off of discounted pizza from work and confined to a vehicle that might fall apart any day now, choosing between staying warm or saving every precious penny I can.

On the flip side, I can go anywhere I want, do anything without worrying about judgmental gazes or harsh punishments for perceived indiscretions.Anythingis better than what I left behind, even if it involves suffering through this bone-chilling cold for another couple of months.

But still, my worry about what today’s storm might bring makes my stomach twist with unease. It’s seeming more and more likely that I’ll either need to pay to park in a garage somewhere or risk getting stuck in the snow.

Accepting help kind of feels like defeat, but I don’t see many other choices. Maybe I will take Mark up on his offer, if only for the sake of self-preservation.

He seemed sincere when he spoke to me. You don’t just save a random woman on the street without some sort of good intentions, right? And if he were going to do something terrible, he easily could have done it last night. No one was around to stop him from pulling me into an alley or, worse, his car. His sheer height and intimidating build made it clear that he would have no trouble snatching me up if he wanted to.

But he didn’t.

He let me go, and he even kept a respectful space betweenus throughout the encounter. Plus, he scared off the man that undoubtedlydidhave bad intentions.

So now I’m sitting here, staring at the paper like it holds the answer to some moral test rather than seeing it for what it is—an act of kindness from a stranger.

Probably. Hopefully.

I take a shaky breath as I copy Mark’s number from the crumpled receipt and begin to type out the text message.