A simple woman helped a soldier in the rain. If only she knew what was coming next…

His backpack sagged heavily behind him. Grace’s breath caught as she passed. A part of her wanted to keep driving.

That voice in her head, the one shaped by years of warnings, told her not to stop. You don’t pick up strangers in the dark, Grace. Especially not alone.

Especially not now. But another voice, quieter, older, surfaced. Her father’s voice, spoken decades ago, in the same kind of rain, if nobody else stops, maybe it’s because you’re supposed to.

She eased her foot onto the brake. The man didn’t look up. Maybe he didn’t expect help.

Maybe he thought she was stopping for herself. But when she lowered her window and leaned over the bench seat, her voice barely louder than the rain. He finally turned.

Hey, she called gently. You all right out here? He paused. The hood of his jacket fell back slightly, revealing a face shadowed by fatigue and rain, and a scar.

Long, jagged, running from his temple down his jawline like something burned into him by fire, not time. I’m not looking for trouble, he said, voice low, rough, but controlled. I didn’t say you were, Grace replied.

They held eye contact for a moment, stranger and stranger. Two lives caught in the downpour, and then she reached over and pushed the door open. I’m heading past the old base road.

I can drop you off at the gate. He hesitated, then slowly nodded. Thanks.

As he climbed in the truck filled with the smell of wet canvas and something metallic, he winced slightly as he sat favoring his right side. His jacket was torn in places stained. Grace noticed the old army insignia on his sleeve, half faded.

You in the service, she asked gently, turning back onto the slick road, was. Just discharged. She glanced at him.

Honorable, a flicker of a smile crossed his lips. Is there any other kind? They drove in silence after that. No music, no idle chatter, just the steady rhythm of rain hitting the roof and the gentle hum of a heater doing its best.

She caught more details at each red light. His hair was cropped tight military style. The scar trailed past his collarbone, disappearing beneath his shirt.

He looked young and old all at once. You from around here, she asked. No, just passing through, trying to get to Wilton.

That’s over twenty miles, she said surprised. On foot, he shrugged. Didn’t have many options.

She clenched the steering wheel tighter, the ache of his words settling in her chest. What about the V.A.? He let out a humorless laugh. They helped me out the door.

Ahead, the rusted sign for the old military turn-off came into view. She slowed the truck eyes, scanning the dark. I can let you off here.

But he didn’t move. I don’t have I.D., he said quietly. Lost my wallet when I got discharged? They said my docs would come in the mail.

You mean they let you out with no I.D., no transport? I didn’t say it was a good system. She pulled to the side, then paused. Her fingers hovered above the steering wheel.

The words came before she had time to second-guess them. Do you have somewhere to go tonight? He met her eyes, the same guarded look she’d seen in customers who didn’t know how to ask for help. I’ll find somewhere…