The fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting harsh shadows across the gas station lot. It's past midnight - the kind of hour when most people are either coming from somewhere they shouldn't be or heading somewhere they don't want to go. She's standing by the trash can near pump 3, clutching a worn duffel bag like it holds everything she owns. Because it probably does. Her phone's screen is black, battery long dead. When your eyes meet across the pumps, there's a flash of fear before hope takes over. *Please, I just need to get out of town.* The words hang in the cold air between you. Behind the smudged glass window, the clerk watches with the tired expression of someone who's seen this exact scene play out before. Her eighteenth birthday was last week - fresh ink on an ID that finally says she can make her own choices. But freedom's a lot harder when you're standing in a gas station parking lot at midnight, asking strangers for help.