The Woman In the SUV

Trigger Warning: This true story contains descriptions of sexual violence, trauma, and homelessness. It includes mentions of assault, abuse, and graphic details that may be distressing to some readers. Please proceed with caution, and take care of your well-being while reading.


This is a rough draft-

We were doing Instacart in Eugene, Oregon. My wife, Angela, my daughter, Iona, and our dog, Hazel, were living in our Toyota Sequoia, trying to find a place of our own where we belonged.

I had my earbuds in as I pushed one of two carts back to the return stall. It was a big order. As I walked, I thought I heard a faint calling. I got back to the Sequoia, grabbed the other cart, took my earbuds out, and started pushing it back.

Then I heard it again.

I looked around and through the windshield of an SUV parked near the cart stall. A woman was inside, waving me over.

She asked me to open her door.

I hesitated. She seemed to be trying to hide herself with a jacket. I averted my gaze and tried the door handle, but it was locked.

"It’s locked," I said. "I can’t open it."

"Try the other door," she told me.

I hesitated again. What was I getting myself into? This lady was naked.

I walked around to the other side of the SUV, stealing a glance at her as she crouched under the jacket. I tried the other door. This time, it opened.

Yes, she was naked. I could see blood. A shit-covered pillow was stuffed under the seat.

She didn’t say anything.

From across the parking lot, I heard my wife calling. "What are you doing?"

I shut the door. I didn’t know what was going on.

Angela got out of our truck and walked toward me. "What’s going on?"

"There’s a naked lady in that truck," I said, still trying to process it. "She asked me to open her door. And there’s... there’s a pillow covered in shit in there."

Angela, a former paramedic and U.S. Army medic, didn’t hesitate. She ran toward the SUV, then turned back for her phone, dialing 911 as she reached the woman.

"Yes, I need an ambulance at Fred Meyer," she said. "What’s the address?"

I gave it to her.

Angela crouched next to the open door. "What’s your name, honey?"

"Kathleen."

She was in bad shape.

"She’s been brutally gang-raped," Angela told the dispatcher. "When did it happen, Kathleen?"

"Two nights ago," she whispered.

"She needs an ambulance here immediately," Angela said.

The 911 operator asked questions. Angela relayed the relevant details, finished the call, then turned to me. "Grab one of our quilts. The one my grandma gave me—the one we used to cover Sarah."

Sarah was our old dog. The quilt had been washed since then, but still, I hesitated.

"Are you sure?" I asked.

Kathleen looked up, her eyes filled with something like shame. "Are you sure?" she echoed.

"Yes, honey," Angela said gently. "You need it more than we do."

She wrapped the quilt around Kathleen, and the words started pouring out of her.

She was homeless, just like us. She’d gone to a late-night laundromat to wash her clothes—we’d done the same ourselves. A couple of guys had offered her a drink. She’d accepted. Then she blacked out.

When she came to, she was being tortured.

She didn’t go into detail. She didn’t need to. Some things are too horrible to say out loud.

A fire truck rolled by. I ran after it, waving my arms, pointing toward Kathleen and Angela. The firefighters pulled over and rushed toward them.

Then the police arrived.

"How long have you known this lady?" one of the officers asked.

"I don’t," Angela said sharply. "I just met her."

Kathleen looked up at them, her voice shaking. "I’ve been sitting in this parking lot for two days. People walked past me. I called for help, but no one stopped." Her eyes filled with tears. "No one stopped—except them."

She gestured at Angela and me. "They're angels."

The firefighters got her ready for transport. Soon, she was loaded into an ambulance and taken away.

Later, we tried to call the hospital to see if she’d made it.

All they would tell us was that she was stable.

And in protective custody.

Angela and I started driving to make our Instacart deliveries, still trying to process what had just happened.

We talked about it—the timing, the circumstances, the sheer chance of it all.

"What if we hadn’t taken that Instacart order?" I said. "What if we weren’t at Fred Meyer? What if we hadn’t parked in that exact spot—the one that took me past Kathleen’s SUV?"

Angela nodded. "What if you hadn’t taken out your earbuds?"

For that matter, what if everything that had happened to us before this moment—the struggles, the homelessness, the choices that led us here—hadn’t happened?

Would we have been in that parking lot at that exact moment?

Would anyone have stopped?

It felt like too much to be coincidence.

One thing was certain: we had saved Kathleen’s life.

Angela was sure of it. She didn’t think Kathleen would have made it if we hadn’t been there.

And neither did I.

Maybe we were meant to be there. Maybe, in some way we couldn’t fully understand, we had been guided to that moment.