Stan Peters walked across the dark parking lot to the Cumberland Farms to get a damn loaf of bread. It had been a long day that left him in a foul mood.

His wife must have sensed his mood, yet she still asked him to stop at the friggan store. He walked with determined strides, the single lamp in the parking lot a shaky beacon as it struggled to stay lit. That annoyed Stan; stupid store couldn't keep the parking lot illuminated.

He was almost to the door when he saw something. It looked like a woman, though she moved too fast. She was there then gone even before Stan looked in the direction of movement.

He paused with his hand on the store door and then he heard a cry. The sound was muffled like a hand over someone's mouth, but it was a cry, a frightened cry of a woman.

The door partly open, Stan paused; he was no hero, hell he'd never been in a fist fight. Then an image filled his head. A young red haired girl, her white freckled face filled with a smile only a daughter could have for her dad.

Stan headed to the side of the building. There was a shuffle of feet and a clang of metal. Tentively he turned the corner ready to shout and run for the store if he needed. Helping the girl was what mattered, not how he did it.

Then he saw her, kneeling near the dumpster, her shoulders rising and falling.

He called to her and she stiffened and whimpered. She was more afraid than he.

"It's okay," Stan said.

Stan tried to keep his voice steady and confident, but he almost choked on his words. Two more steps and he could reach out to touch her. She still did not turn. Even when he asked if she needed an ambulance she did not respond.

One more step and her crying became louder, faster, but was it crying?

Stan froze. No, it was laughter. He must have blacked out because she was standing and facing him. He didn't see her move and then she was, holding him with the grip he could not break and her mouth pressed to his neck. His head became light and night's darkness prevailed.