Ruth watched as a teenage girl boarded the Hypersonic Express in ripped jeans, tennis shoes, and an overstuffed school backpack. Except Ruth could tell the pack wasn’t filled with the rectangular and sharp corners of textbooks, but rather with the soft contours of clothes.

She looked closer at the girl who refused to meet eye contact and knew this girl wasn’t headed to school, or the mall, or her friend’s house. She had seen this look before in herself long ago. She was running.

The woman could see the determination, the fear, and the anxiety on the girl’s face, even as the girl pulled a hood down to hide. Ruth considered offering her help, but she knew already that the girl would refuse. This was something she had to do for herself.

The girl finally looked at the older woman, knowing this grandma was judging, knowing they were all judging. What right had they? Her teachers hated her. Her brother blamed everything on her. Her own mother used her. And nothing she could do succeeded for long. She was sick of it. She’d packed her clothes, taken her mother’s stash of weed and her brother’s credit card, and left her phone under her bed. They wouldn’t miss her for three days at least, and by then they wouldn’t know where to look and so would never start. And she hated them for it.

The older woman kept staring and the fear rose up inside her that this lady might call the cops or try to stop her. She felt she needed to switch trains, so when the next stop came, she quickly stepped off. But as she did so, a light hand touched her shoulder. She twirled around to see the old lady looking at her.

“I’m not doing anything wrong!” She cried.

“I know,” said the old lady as she held out a slip of paper with her phone number on it.

Ruth watched the girl take the paper quickly and run into the station to wait for the next train. Ruth already knew the girl would never call the number, but at least the girl would have something that she never had: Something from someone to tell her she wasn’t alone.