December 17, a little after 2 a.m., in a suburb of Chicago

It was damn cold out – almost cold enough to convince Henry to turn around and head back to his brother’s house, but he’d promised his girl he’d be back by morning. A man has to keep his promises, after all.

The combination of bitter darkness and harsh streetlamps was starting to dazzle Henry a little. He hated this – it was impossible to see straight in the dark, really.

Henry didn’t notice the girl until she impacted the front of his truck.

Cursing and panicking, Henry braked. He jumped out as soon as the vehicle stopped and ran back to where the girl had been.

She was sitting in the middle of the road, and although her thin dress was torn, there were no signs of other injuries. Henry helped her stand. “Are you all right? I’m so sorry, Miss. I didn’t see you. It was so dark and-”

The girl raised her hand, cutting him off. “It’s alright,” she said in a rough, low voice. “I’m fine.”

“Let me offer you a lift, at least,” Henry said. The girl was barefoot and wearing nothing but a thin, now torn, dress. She had to be freezing.

Henry could barely see the girl’s face through her tangled red hair. “Alright, then.”

Henry walked the girl back to his truck and opened the passenger-side door for her. She climbed in.

“What’s your name, Miss?”

“Mary.”

“I’m Henry.” He walked around to the driver’s side of the truck, jumped in, and turned the key.

Mary heaved an inaudible sigh of relief. Henry hadn’t noticed the handprints in his grille.

“So, Mary, where can I take you?”

“7600 Archer Avenue, please,” she said, looking out the window.