Because the people around him had finally stopped helping him pretend.
The neighbor opened the passenger door for me.
I lowered myself carefully into the seat.
Then she walked around to the driver’s side.
As the car pulled away, I looked through the rain-streaked window.
The scarecrow was still standing in the field.
The torn shirt was still caught against one of its wooden arms.
The place where they had tied me was still visible from the road.
But now there was something else there too.
A witness.
Someone who knew exactly what she had seen.
At the clinic, the doctor examined my ankle and checked the baby. The pain had frightened me more than I had admitted, but the immediate examination gave me one thing I desperately needed: reassurance that I had not ignored a serious warning sign.
The doctor asked me who had brought me.
I said, “A neighbor.”
