She handed me the convenience store bag with the vinyl strings and the utility knife inside. "Can you dispose of these? I don't need them anymore," she said softly. She rubbed her tear-streaked eyes, then stumbled forward, her swollen feet limping as she moved away from the place we had been.
I watched her go, but reassurance felt distant. I couldn't shake the feeling that she wasn't truly okay. The distance to town on foot was substantial, and the weight of uncertainty pressed down on me.
"Would you like me to take you home?" I asked quietly, voice hesitant. "I have my motorcycle with me."
She shook her head sharply. "I can't let you do that much for me," she replied, but I pressed on, insisting gently.
