Our car\u2019s highbeams cut through the darkness of Maryland\u2019s rural Route 50, heading westbound toward home. It was only 9 PM, but no other cars were around. Trees lining both sides of the road blocked out the moonlight, and the area was so sparsely populated, not even a streetlamp could be seen.<\/p>\n
What a spooky stretch this route could be this late in the year, when the crowds no longer flocked to the beach. We should have left earlier, <\/em>I thought. We would have had time to visit our friend in the nursing home and could have taken the interstate back from there, instead of this lonely road.<\/p>\n We were returning from our beach house in Ocean City, about three-and-a-half hours from our home. Now that we\u2019re retired, my husband, Charles, likes to check on it every couple of weeks, making sure the gutters are clear, the roof is not leaking, the patio is clean and the yard and the cherry trees are well cared for.<\/p>\n Even in the fall, we love to go down and watch the crashing waves. But we\u2019d gotten too caught up. Before I knew it, the sun was setting. \u201cIt\u2019s too late to visit the nursing home,\u201d I lamented. A missed opportunity to see a friend.<\/p>\n Up ahead, our headlights lit up a figure walking alone along the road. Who would be out here in the dark? As we got closer, I saw it was a young woman, approaching a car parked haphazardly on the right shoulder. We zoomed past. \u201cShe may need help,\u201d Charles said. \u201cYou make the call\u2014should we go back?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cLet\u2019s do it.\u201d We circled back and pulled over. I got out and tapped on the woman\u2019s car window. \u201cDo you need help?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n \u201cMy battery died,\u201d she answered. \u201cI called my husband. He\u2019ll be here in 20 minutes or so. I\u2019ll\u2026 I\u2019ll be fine.\u201d<\/p>\n I didn\u2019t believe her. Anyone would be scared alone out here in the dark. We didn\u2019t have any cables to give her a jump, but we could keep her company. \u201cI\u2019m Roxy,\u201d I said. \u201cWe\u2019re on our way to Silver Spring.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m Sarah,\u201d she said. \u201cI used to live in Aspen Hill.\u201d That was five minutes away from us. \u201cMaybe you know my grandmother, Elsie?\u201d<\/p>\n Elsie? When she said the last name, memories rushed back. Elsie and I had been friends two decades ago, worked and attended church together. I\u2019d even met Sarah\u2014when she was ten. But Elsie had moved away and we\u2019d lost touch.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019ll give you her number,\u201d Sarah said.<\/p>\n We stayed with Sarah until her husband got close. I called Elsie immediately. Yes, getting caught up at the beach house had made us too late to visit a friend. But we\u2019d been right on time to catch up with another.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Our car\u2019s highbeams cut through the darkness of Maryland\u2019s rural Route 50, heading westbound toward home. It was only 9 PM, but no other cars were around. Trees lining both sides of the road blocked out the moonlight, and the area was so sparsely populated, not even a streetlamp could be seen. What a spooky […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":28710,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"ep_exclude_from_search":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[229],"tags":[51],"ppma_author":[1339],"class_list":["post-20077","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-friends","tag-inspirational-stories"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\n