Many years ago, I was driving my mini-van full of children, my own two and a few extra foster blessings, on our way to Roger Williams Zoo. It was supposed to be a fun day of lions, monkeys, and overpriced ice cream, but God had other plans. Right as we were rounding Thurber’s Avenue curve on Interstate 95, that feared and treacherous stretch of highway with no breakdown lane, the tire blew. Completely flat. I swerved, heart pounding in my throat, and somehow managed to wedge the van onto the sliver of shoulder that existed. With traffic whizzing by at sixty miles an hour, I imagined our day ending not with giraffes but with headlines and political discussions about improving the roadways in RI.

 Fearing an impending collision, we bailed out of the van like it was on fire. My mother, in a feat of maternal acrobatics, managed to corral the children to get behind the guardrail, holding all their hands at once. (Yes, even though she was not an octopus, she held four little hands at once.)

 I stood there trembling, feeling helpless, full of dread, and feeling like I wanted to throw up. We were stranded. Traffic was roaring by like the race cars at Seekonk Speedway, and I could already picture the flashing ambulance lights and bits and pieces of small body parts strewn on the road.

 That is when he showed up. A beat-up car pulled in behind us, hazard lights flashing, and out stepped a young man. He did not look like anyone’s idea of a roadside angel. But he definitely was an angel.

 He got right to work, silently and confidently changing the tire like he had done it a hundred times before. But first, of course, he had to deal with the trunk of my van to get at the jack. That meant gently shifting aside several bags of used toys and outgrown clothes destined (eventually) for the Salvation Army, along with a few bags of non-perishable groceries I had neglected to bring into the house. (Let me just say that if we were hungry, we were well-stocked with canned corn, Fruit Loops and peanut butter.) Unlike Hubby, he never complained or grunted in aggravation but just quietly did what needed doing. I stood behind the guardrail in awe, not just because of his skill, but of the fact that he chose to put his life in danger along one of the most dangerous spots on I-95.

 When he finished, I reached into my purse and offered him the only money I had, a slightly wrinkled $20 bill. He smiled for the first time, shook his head, and said, “Nah. It was my pleasure. Just glad I could help.” And then, just like that, he drove away, heading north.

 We then all climbed back into the van and took off as fast as I could muster, eager to put some distance between us and the danger we had narrowly escaped. The kiddos, of course, were oblivious, chattering excitedly about monkeys and the elephant Alice.

 They loved the zoo and had a great time, but I could not stop shaking inside. Even as I smiled for pictures and bought soft pretzels, my body was still holding the fear. The reality of the impending disaster we had so narrowly avoided stayed lodged in my chest like a second heartbeat.

 I think of him often, especially when I hear people speak in broad, fearful generalizations. The next time someone tells me to be wary of people who look “a certain way,” I will tell them about the young man who saved a van full of children and a very scared mother on Thurber’s Avenue curve and wouldn’t take a dime for it.