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"This is so illegal."

I kick my door shut behind us and lay her on the couch. She hasn't stirred since she passed out, but her breathing seems to be even. She didn't hit her head, so there's no damage there. She's just scared and on overload. Yet, in the pit of my stomach I worry for her. I really should bring her to the hospital.

"You're kidnapping her," Mark says.

I find a clean towel in one of my kitchen drawers (thanks Mom!) and I run it under the warm tap water. I ring out the towel and sit on the coffee table in front of the couch. The girl seems so much smaller in my apartment. Her face is slightly dirty and there is some blood on the corner of her lip. Her cheek is swelled from where he hit her, but apart from that, she seems fine. I clean her skin, wiping away the dirt, and I clean the blood away. She already looks better.

With the dirt and the blood gone, I realize how young she is. Younger than me, for sure, but I wonder how old she is. If she's too young, anything I do could be held against me. No. I'm helping her. Even if someone questions me carrying her into the apartment, I'm only helping her. Mark is my witness.

I ignore her age and reach behind her to remove her heavy backpack. It must weight what she does.

"I say call the cops now before they think you're a rapist."

"I'm not a rapist," I growl. The images of finding her helpless in the dark make my stomach turn. "Now if you're going to fuck around and make everything worse, leave."

I turn my attention back to the girl. Her hair is pulled back into a loose ponytail, but it looks dirty like her skin was. Her clothing is worn on the edges—her jeans frayed, her tee shirt unraveling at the very bottom. Her shoes are sturdy, but stained with dirt. It makes no sense. Something doesn't add up.

"What can I do to help?" Mark asks.

I feel relief. I need someone else's perspective. "Can you get water? Maybe I can try to wake her and get her to drink something." Mark nods and disappears into the kitchen.

I lean my head down until my forehead is pressed into my hands. I can't help but wonder what might have happened if I hadn't come along. Would someone have helped her? I've heard before that if you need help you should yet fire. People are more likely to help if it doesn't involve them getting hurt. Did she yell help without a response? Mark turns on the tap in the kitchen and I cast the thoughts aside. She's okay now.

With a gentle hand I touch her shoulder and shake her. "Hello?" I ask quietly.

She doesn't stir. I shake her again, this time a little harder.

Nothing.

Mark sets the water beside my hip. "Maybe we could like blast music or something."

"I don't want to scare her."

Neither of us says anything more. I try to shake her again, but to no avail. She's out cold. I check her pulse just to be sure and it's as strong as it can be. She's fine, just protecting herself against the evils of the world. I lean my head back into my hands and wait. Mark sits at the end of the couch, close to her but not touching her. He switches between watching her and watching me.

After a while, Mark speaks up, "What happened exactly?"

When Mark showed up, I was bringing her into my building. I gave him the brief story: she was about to be raped and I rescued her, but I couldn't say anything else. I was too worried about her. I was too worried what people would think. I sigh and tell him the whole story. It's strange to stumble over certain words, but thinking of his hands on her and pinning her to the wall makes my blood boil. Mark's quiet and keeps his composure. I wonder if he'd do the same thing for a stranger. And then I feel bad even wondering. Of course Mark would.

I scrub my face and hit the sore spot on my jaw. "Shit," I mutter. I stand up and check my face in the bathroom mirror.

"He hit you hard."

"Yeah, I've never seen stars in my eyes before today."

Mark laughs lowly and then quiets. He sighs, "What happened to the guy?"

"I'm trying not to think of it. If he tried this with her…" I can't even finish my sentence.

Mark's phone rings. He sighs and answers, "Hi Mom." Mark disappears in my bedroom and I return to my seat in front of her.

I glance up at the clock. She's been down for almost thirty minutes. I try to think about my classes, and if there's any helpful information from any of my lectures, but it's useless. My classes are useless. I can't help her. Unless you call the hospital, I think. But she looked so afraid when I tried before. I glance at the clock again. 7:03 PM. If she's not awake by 8:00, I'm taking her to the hospital.

"I gotta go," Mark say regretfully. "My mom's here for dinner."

"Yeah, okay." I can't look away from her.

Mark grips my shoulder. "Let me know if you need anything."

I nod. Just as he opens the door I look away from her. "Hey Mark." He turns back to me. "Thanks."

"Anytime buddy," he smiles and leaves.

I force myself away from her side for just a minute. I desperately have to pee and I can't wait another hour to do so. I take as little time as possible in the bathroom, but I don't fail to remember my morning in the shower with the sorority girl. It seems so long ago. I shake my head, almost disgusted in myself. I finish, wash my hands, and take my seat in the living room.

For the first time since I was little, I want to call my mom for help. She'd know what to do. She's always so level-headed and reasonable. Maybe all moms are that way, but she's exactly who I need right now. I pick up my phone to call her, but then decide against it. How can I explain to her that I didn't even think to take a picture of the near-rapist? He's out there now prowling for another victim and I could have stopped him. The thought makes my head hurt. I can't think of it. I saved her. It's not enough, but it's something.

I notice her backpack I took off before and I become curious. What does she have in there that would be so heavy? I lean down to unzip the smallest pocket when she takes a deep breath and opens her eyes.

Her immediate response is fear. She curls away from me, drawing her knees to her chest and pressing her back into the couch. She hasn't seen me in such direct light. I smile softly. "It's okay. You're safe. You're in my apartment—Christopher and Bleeker—in New York. Do you remember what happened?"

Recognition crosses her face and she loosens her grip on her legs. She nods. "You saved me."

I remember the glass of water and offer it to her. She takes it willingly and sits up, pulling the glass to her lips. For a few seconds all I can hear is the sound of her throat processing the water. She stares at me over the rim and normally I would find it odd, but after the evening she's had I let it go. She finishes the water and hands me the glass. "Thanks," she says and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. I hadn't noticed how dirty her fingernails were until now. "How long have I been passed out?"

"Thirty minutes, a little more. How do you feel?"

Her face falls slightly. "Did I throw up on you?"

"No. Near me, but not on me."

"I'm sorry."

"Hey," I reach out tentatively and touch the back of her hand. It's still wet from the water and her lips. "Please don't apologize. You've been through a lot tonight."

Her cheeks flush and she looks away. "Yeah."

I sigh and lean closer to her, "Can you tell me what happened?"

She shutters and wraps her arms around her waist. I pull the blanket off the arm of the couch and spread it out before placing it across her shoulders. "Thanks," she offers me a brief smile. She pulls either end of the blanket into her hands. "I was walking to Washington Square Park," she begins. "It was going to be dark soon and…" she pauses, catches my eye, and looks back down at her hands. "I was meeting someone there. He came out of nowhere." Her voice breaks.

I squeeze her hand reassuringly.

She closes her eyes. "He dragged me between the buildings. You came right after he brought me down there. I screamed before he he stopped me."

"I heard you scream."

She begins to cry quietly. "I didn't think anyone would come." Her hand comes to life in mine and she squeezes it hard. "Thank you so much."

I wrap the back of her hand in my other. "I'm just glad you're okay." She uses the back of her hand to mop up the tears. "You are okay, right?"

"I'm fine."

"He didn't do anything to you?"

She shakes her head, "Nothing. You stopped him." Fresh tears trail down her cheeks.

"You're okay. You're safe here. Can I get you anything? More water? Some food?"

She touches her stomach. "Food would be good. And, where's your bathroom?" she colors.

I point her in the right directly and retire to the kitchen to find something decent for her to eat. All I have in the cabinets is rice mix, some olives, and a can of refried beans. In the fridge, is leftover Chinese food, the one taco from last night, a lot of beer, and an apple. I grab the Chinese and the apple and lay out the food. By the time the food is done heating, she's made her way back into the living room. She looks cleaner still.

I bring the food and one beer. I still doubt she's of age. I hand her a fork. She doesn't say anything, but digs straight into the food, discarding the apple onto the couch next to her. She smells fresh, like my soap. I notice her face looks dewy.

She eats ravenously, like she hasn't eaten in months. She's very thin, maybe she hasn't.

And then I notice her backpack again. The pieces start to fall into place.

"I don't even know your name."

She swallows a particularly large mouthful of lo mein. "Meredith."

"I'm Derek."

After that she eats more rationally. It takes her no time to finish the plate and I expect her to ask for more. She doesn't. She sets the plate besides her hip on the couch. "Should we call your friend?"

Her eyes widen, "What friend?"

"The one you were meeting in the park."

"Oh, no. I mean, it wasn't set in stone or anything."

I nod slowly. She's lying. I nod to her backpack. "You're carrying a lot with you. Are you a student around here?"

She glances at me and then looks to my south facing wall. "No. I'm sightseeing."

"You're a tourist then." She nods. "I'm surprised to see you so far down the island. Where are you from?"

"I should get going," she says and I know I'm losing her.

"Are you staying around here?"

"Yeah, not too far." She stands and picks up her pack. She crumbles, slightly, under the weight.

I stand as well, trying to subtly block the door. "I can walk you. You know, after everything's that's happened today."

She adjusts the straps on her back. "No, I'm fine really."

Her hair is the color of straw and her skin is pale and washed out—as if she's undernourished or hiding from the sun permanently. "I really think I should walk you."

Meredith rights herself and pulls the straps of her pack over her boobs. I try not to notice, but I do. Her eyes narrow, as if she's caught me, and she pushes around the small amount of space between me and the door. "I'm good. I'm a big girl. I don't need a babysitter." Anger. Defensiveness.

I put my hand out to stop the door. She takes a step away from me. "Who are you running from?" I ask.

The anger grows in her eyes. "What are you talking about?" I also see panic. I'm trapping her, which isn't nice—not after what she experienced. But unlike the fucked up guy from the alley, I won't hurt her.

"You're carrying your body weight on your back. You're unnaturally thin, look like you haven't really showered in weeks, and you eat like you haven't seen food before. And I know you're not a tourist. And you have nowhere to stay." I pause, trying to read something in her face, but she's gone blank. "And I know you're not eighteen."

For a second I think she might break and tell me everything—confirm my suspicions, but her eyes only narrow further. "You don't know anything about me."

"So where are you staying?" I cross my arms and stand in front of the door.

"It's none of your fucking business," she seethes. "Now let me go."

"Stay here," I offer.

"Are you cracked? I don't know you and you're pretty much holding me against my will right now."

"It's safe here. You might not know me, but I'm a good guy. You can sleep in my spare room. Out there, it's not safe, which you'd think you'd've realized by now." I hear myself growing mean. I sigh. "That guy isn't the only one, who can hurt you, and you don't know me, but I'm offering you somewhere to stay, at least for tonight."

Meredith's quiet resolve makes me anxious. I don't know why I feel compelled to keep her here, but after taking a fist to the jaw for her, I want to make sure she lives another day. May it's the hero in me—or the part of me that believes I can be a hero—but if I have the ability to help her, I will.

After a minute, she pulls her backpack straps tighter and drops her crossed arms. "I don't know you. Please let me go," her voice breaks, as does my determination.

I step aside and let her pass. What else can I do?

As she reaches the top step, I say, "Wait!" she pauses. I scramble to my desk drawer in the spare bedroom and pull out a piece of paper. I scribble down the essentials and meet her at the top of the stairs. "Call me, if you need anything. I might be a stranger to you, and so is everyone else out there, but I saved you and that should count for something."

She pauses and eyes the slip of paper where I've written my cell phone number, my full name, and my address. And then she takes it. "Thanks…for everything," she says awkwardly. And then she's gone.

I drag my fingers through my hair. Good going, Shepherd.

At my front window, I watch her leave my building and continue down the street. She pauses at the corner and looks back over her shoulder. For a moment, I allow myself to believe she'll return and allow me to look out for her. But she turns away again and disappears around a building.