She looked twelve, but her countenance screamed older. I saw her sitting on the pavement outside the door as I went into the Quick-Stop for diet cokes, but couldn't make eye contact. When I came out of the store and got back into the car, she finally looked up with what I suspect was her best effort at a smile. Her stringy brown hair, which would have been beautiful if clean, framed a thin face with big, brown eyes. I was powerless to start the car and leave so I got out of the car and walked over to her, squatted down, and asked her if she needed help. Looking into her eyes was like looking into a window on the house of despair, but she said nothing.

"Do you need a ride somewhere?" was all I could think to ask in what I hoped was a noncommital tone. There was a tattered backpack next to her that told me she had every possession she owned with her. I'm not very good at this. I am sensitive to people's pride and as much as I wanted to help, I didn't wish to come off condescending. She asked me if I had a cigarette or a beer. I had neither, but couldn't just walk away. I told her I would buy some beer and a pack of cigarettes if she would go with me to a nearby park, using the excuse that there was a sign that said "Consumption of alcohol on these premises is prohibited by law". She agreed. In the blink of a purchase of a twelve-pack of Coors Light and a pack of Marlborogh's later, we were at the park.

I was ridden with moral conflict. I couldn't find a way to help without giving credence to her needs. We walked to a picnic table that had seen better days and she plopped her backpack on its slatted top. I pushed the package of Marlborough's toward her, and she hungrily opened them and lit up. We both popped a Coors Light. No one spoke for several minutes while my mind whirred at fifty miles an hour. Finally, as she opened her second beer, she spoke. Why are you being nice to me?