Late one October night in the near-empty parking garage under his office building, Will found a body sprawled across the hood of his Passat. Seeing it, he froze in his tracks like he'd hit a pane of glass, a taste like battery acid filling his mouth. Then he began his slow and cautious approach. It was, he saw, a young woman. Rather scantily clad. White legs, mane of dark hair, one arm stretching up across the windshield. She was on her stomach, one leg protruding off the fender. Within a few feet of her now, Will leaned in and saw she was breathing – panting, sort of. Her face was tinged with bruises.
He straightened up and looked out into the echoing shadows. Then he quickly dug his car keys out of his pocket and opened the passenger door of the car. Working gingerly, not wanting to rouse her, he slipped one arm under the girl's neck, the other under her knees, scooped her up, and placed her in the passenger seat. Then he shut the door, walked around and climbed in on driver’s side. He started the car and watched the shadows as he drove to the exit ramp, half‑expecting whoever had left the girl here to leap out from behind a concrete pillar. But no one did. The gate swung up in front of him, and he aimed the VW out into traffic.
GWU was nearby. He'd drop the girl off at the hospital there. Driving up Pennsylvania Avenue, though, past the hotels and offices washed in light, he got his first really good look at her. She was tiny and thin. She had a child's face and a mop of black hair. There were goosebumps on her arms. He watched the streetlights creep across her face and was filled with a strange rush of emotion, a crushing pity, and he
