Stranded. In the middle of nowhere. Out of gas. The nearest station is miles away. Trunk is loaded with boxes of belongings because you are moving home for the summer from college. Cell phone is dead. The stupid charger is packed in the trunk somewhere. But who would you call?

A car comes, no a semi. Too busy to stop. Flies by. You get out and open the trunk. You dig out a Sharpie and rip off a box flap. You write Out of Gas on the cardboard and hold the sign hoping for another car. A pickup comes around the bend, slows. Stops. Out jumps a teenage girl. “I’ve got gas!” She hollers.
She goes to the side of the truck and reaches for a gas can. She turns and opens it to check on the amount inside. “A little….” She hesitates, then begins to walk toward you. She trips on her shoelace.
The precious gas spills out into the ditch. The noxious fumes of defeat fill your nostrils.

“Wait…now I don’t.” She looks mortified.

“Could you possibly drive me to the station?”

She cheers, “Duh! Of course! I have a truck!”