So, here's the story. I can tell it all now.
Sunday evening, March 15, 2015 my father and I were eating dinner at the
kitchen table. We had boiled Ham and Cabbage so I could make us Ham
and Cabbage Hash for St. Patrick's Day. We finished dinner and as is my
custom I went up to my room to write. Just a few minutes later, at
about 6pm I hear the sound of a desperate woman begging someone. My
father's house abuts a bit of woods and my desk is in front of a window,
so I stood up and looked about the woods. I could see nothing but bare
trees and the carpet of fallen oak leaves. Suddenly, I heard my
father, a gentlemen of 81 years old who isn't in the best shape calling
for help downstairs. I dashed down the stairs, calling, "Dad, what's
"We got a wound down here," he replied.
I turn the corner to the hallway and see him, he looks fine.
"Where are you hurt?" I asked.
"It's not me that's hurt" he says, leading me into the family room.
Standing there just inside the backdoor is what looks to be a 14 year
old boy with a bloody forearm.
I directed my attention to the boy, examining his forearm. There were
four or five lateral cuts across his arm and a couple of scratches, only
one of any real depth. I led him into the bathroom to wash away the
blood to get a better view of injuries.
"I broke some glass. I just lost it."
"Where are your parents?"
"What's your name?" I asked as I poured peroxide liberally over her arm.
Then I realized she was a girl, or really a young woman.
"How old are you?"
I patted down her arm to dry the area so I could bandage it. I threw
the blood stained paper towels into the trash in the kitchen where I led
Ali to sit at the table while I did the bandaging work. We talked some
more. I asked her if she had eaten? She hadn't eaten that day. I
made her a plate of Ham and Cabbage (and potatoes) which she devoured as
if she hadn't eaten in a week. She had no interest in going to the
hospital and she didn't want the police involved. I pressed her for the
full story on her injuries.
She said she had been invited to stay with a friend further up my
street. That's how she lived, she explained, crashing on friends
couches. she had just walked about ten miles to get to the friends'
house, and had just walked in the door when Ali's friend's aunt "or
whatever" throws her out. Ali said she "just lost it" and broke a glass
in the street.
"Did the glass bounce back and cut you?" I asked, knowing already that that wasn't the case. "You cut yourself, right?"
She nodded, assuring me that she had "just lost it" and that she was
fine now. She asked to use the phone. I handed her the house phone.
she called a friend to pick her up, but the friend was I work. I
volunteered to take her anywhere she needed to go. She mentioned a
location about ten miles away, I agreed.
On the way I got a little bit more information from Ali. She was from
Texas where she lived with her parents, but said she "had to leave" a
couple of years ago and that she "just couldn't stay there." I took
that to mean she ran away from home. She had me drop her off at a
T-Mobile store, as I didn't have a cell phone to lend her (because I'm
poor because of my impending divorce). I asked where she would go. She
pointed first to a Dunkin Donuts where she would meet her friend and
then to an apartment complex across the shopping center and she usually
stayed there and that she kept her stuff there. I gave her my phone
number and my last $10. I watched her walk into the T-Mobile store.
I drove home. My dad was a wreck worrying about me. The situation was really weird and I think we were both kind of in shock.
Monday was a busy day at work, and I thought about Ali and how hard her
life must be, here and there, but I never really had time to think over
the previous evening's weirdness.
Tuesday evening after dinner, I thought of Ali, and made a computer search of the following, "Ali Runaway Texas"
And there was Ali Lowitzer, who had disappeared in 2010 at the age of 16
from Spring, Texas. Some of the pictures didn't look anything like my
Ali, but then I saw some of her where she was leaner and with darker
shorter hair. My dad and I both agreed that our Ali from Texas looked a
great deal like lost Ali from Texas.
And then I began to detective the hell out of that shit.