• [iWhen I was eight years old my best friend and I were walking home from school. The bus we take drops us off a few blocks from the apartment complex we both live in. Everyday we walked home together, today was the same. It was nearing the end of the school year and kids were excited, we were excited. Usually the last few days of school at our elementary meant games and movies. Me and her were talking, laughing, the way best friends often would. We walked through yards and our favorite alley between two large houses, that every year at this same time, was covered in caterpillars. They crawled up the walls and trees, they littered the ground so we had to be careful as we stepped on leaves and garbage. On our way out the alley on THIS particular day, we were stopped by a man neither of us knew. In this day and age, even as eight year old girls, we knew that talking to strangers was dangerous. Now, we didn’t know quite what those dangers entailed, but we knew well enough to ignore the man and keep walking just a little faster. He was persistent, I remember that, also the frantic look in his beady brown eyes. He was driving a little cart that all the men who worked as mechanics in our apartment complex drove. Like a golf cart but with a large back to carry things on. He kept asking where a certain apartment was, saying it was his first day on the job and he needed help. Me and my friend glanced to each other, we could see the resolve in our eyes shatter, he seemed okay, he was in clean clothes, neatly combed hair, and our apartments could be rather confusing to navigate. So, we got in the cart. Every day I look back on this moment, what did I do wrong? In my mind as a child I took that risk, because that man might have really needed our help, and because as kids we believed we were stronger than the world. The world couldn’t touch us. So we went this this man, directing him to where he needed to go. Till we were alone with him inside an empty apartment, then the last thing I knew was blackness.]