Treva and I had recently gotten engaged. I’d given a talk out of town, and we were driving back that evening—tired, happy, ready to be home—when we pulled into a rest stop on the Turnpike. I went into the men’s restroom, and as I was washing my hands a young man approached me.
“Where you headed?” he asked.
“To Wichita,” I said.
He nodded toward another fellow lingering nearby, both of them in their twenties. “My friend and I are going that way too. Could you give us a ride?”
I didn’t think twice. “Sure,” I said. Only after the word left my mouth did I remember: I wasn’t alone. I was traveling with my fiancée.
“I’d better check with her,” I added quickly.
When Treva came out of the restroom, I told her what I’d offered. Her face reddened with alarm.
“Honey,” she said quietly, “you can’t just offer rides to strangers when I’m with you. That’s dangerous. Please tell them no.”
I didn’t see the harm, but I respected her instincts.
The two men were watching me from across the room, their eyes fixed on us. When I told them my fiancée wasn’t comfortable, and they’d need to find another ride, one of them snapped. His face tightened with contempt.
He mocked me loudly for “needing permission,” his voice sharp enough that a few heads turned.
And in that moment, two things struck me at once: I had been careless, and Treva was right.
I turned my back to them and walked away. Even then, the men continued to watch us, their attention unsettlingly sharp. A few minutes later they moved to stand near the Wichita exit. A cold fear swept over me—the irrational but unmistakable thought that they might try to jump into our car the moment we opened the doors.
So I came up with a plan. I asked Treva to take the car and pull out in the opposite direction, toward Kansas City instead of Wichita, and wait for me around the curve. I would linger by the Wichita exit a few minutes, keep the men’s eyes on me, and then slip out.
Treva followed the plan. I stayed where they could see me, pretending to wait for someone, feeling their gaze pin me in place. After several tense minutes, I walked calmly to the opposite exit, then broke into a quick stride, slid into the passenger seat of our waiting car, and we pulled out fast.
Only once we merged back onto the Turnpike did we finally breathe.
I apologized to Treva. She had sensed the risk long before I did. I promised her I would never again pick up hitchhikers while she was with me.
And I kept that promise. I only picked up one hitchhiker after that—with her beside me—and that time it turned out to be a wonderful experience.
But that, as they say, is another story.
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