My wife and I were returning from a party at 2 AM when our car died in a remote area. There were no mobiles then, so we waited. An hour later, a college student passed by and drove us to town. We offered money but he said, “Happy to help.” Years later, my wife called in tears. With a shaky voice she told me to open the news. Turns out that student…was a wanted man.
I remember that night like it was yesterday. It was late, and we were running on fumes—both figuratively and literally. My wife and I had spent the evening at a friend’s birthday party in a nearby city, and we’d had such a good time that we lost track of how far we’d driven home. On top of that, the back roads where we lived had a tendency to be pitch black. No streetlights. No passing cars. So, when the engine sputtered and gave out, we found ourselves in the middle of nowhere.
We tried to keep calm. We had no phones back then—no quick way to call for roadside assistance or even a tow truck. Our only plan was to wait and hope for a Good Samaritan to come along. After about an hour, the silence was still eerie. Trees loomed on either side of the narrow road, their branches forming jagged shapes in the moonlight. Every little rustle made us jump, half-expecting some kind of wild animal. I was already thinking about how we might have to sleep in the car.
Then, headlights flickered in the distance. A beat-up sedan came into view, and the driver slowed. He rolled down his window and asked, “You folks need help?” My wife and I exchanged a quick glance. We were both relieved and a little nervous. You never know if strangers on an empty highway are trustworthy. Still, our choices were limited. We told him our situation, and he offered us a ride to the nearest town.
When he stepped out of the car to help push ours off the road, I saw that he looked no older than twenty—maybe even nineteen. He had short hair, wore a simple T-shirt, and seemed humble and kind, if a bit tired. He introduced himself but, to be honest, I’ve completely forgotten the name he gave us. In my memory, he’s just that “college kid” who saved us that night.
We climbed into his old car, grateful to feel the heater. During the drive, we made small talk. He mentioned he was on break from college and was driving home to visit family. He told us he was studying something technical—engineering or computer science, I can’t recall. He seemed a little quiet, maybe shy, but polite. My wife offered him some cash for the gas and the trouble, but he just shook his head and said with a gentle smile, “I’m happy to help.”
We reached the outskirts of a nearby town, where there was a 24-hour diner. He dropped us off, waved goodbye, and vanished into the night. My wife and I breathed a sigh of relief, so grateful that someone had been kind enough to stop. For a long time, we talked about how we wished we could track him down and send him a gift card, or at least a thank-you note. But we had no information—no phone number, no last name, nothing.
Fast-forward many years. Life moved on. We upgraded our car, kids came along, and the memory of that night turned into one of those stories we’d tell at gatherings: “Remember that time our car broke down at 2 AM and that college student rescued us?” People would always respond with something like, “Wow, you were lucky!” We’d laugh about how naive we’d been to accept help from a stranger, but we always ended by saying, “But it all worked out.”
Then, about a decade later, I was at work when my phone rang. I could tell right away something was wrong because my wife’s voice shook. She could barely get her words out. “Turn on the news,” she said, her voice trembling. “You’re not going to believe this.” So I opened a news site on my computer, and there he was—a face with the same tired eyes, only older, plastered across the headlines.
The article read something like: “Man Finally Apprehended After Statewide Robbery Spree.” I skimmed the details in disbelief. The authorities said he’d targeted over 30 unsuspecting motorists late at night, usually on deserted roads. He would pretend to help them, then rob them at knifepoint. Some people had been tied up, others left stranded with no shoes or wallets. He’d gotten away with it for years, moving from county to county, always managing to slip through the cracks.
My mind swirled back to the night we met him. That was around the time he was actively preying on drivers. One of the strangest details in the story was how he sometimes let certain people go unscathed, for reasons nobody fully understood. The detective interviewed in the article speculated that he chose his victims based on who seemed vulnerable—typically people traveling alone in the wee hours of the morning.
I nearly fell out of my chair. “Why did he spare us?” I thought. Was it because my wife and I were together, and two people were harder to control than one? Or maybe my height and build seemed too risky. I’m not a giant by any means, but I’m not exactly small either. Or could it have been the sheer luck that we treated him kindly, talked to him like a normal person, and offered him money (which he graciously refused)?