During the next few hours, walking grew increasingly difficult, and three miles from the city the dizziness had returned worse than before. Everything began spinning so violently that I was staggering like a drunken man. Then I threw up. I stumbled a few more yards then threw up twice more. I fell onto my knees, holding my head in agony.

I slid my pack off and rolled over to my side. Walking was no longer an option. I didn’t know what to do. I hoped that a highway patrolman or a passing motorist might stop to check on me, but no one did. Cars sped past, either not seeing me, or, possibly, not wanting to deal with me. How do you not react to a body lying on the side of the road?

I lay there for several hours, throwing up six more times, until I was dry heaving, the taste of stomach acid sharp and bitter in my mouth. As darkness fell, I was in a quandary. I didn’t know whether I should roll farther off the shoulder to avoid getting run over, or stay where I was, hoping some Good Samaritan would stop to help—a prospect that seemed less likely with each passing car.

I had begun to panic, wondering how I would spend the night, when I heard a car pull up behind me. I heard a door open, followed by heavy footsteps. My mind, already spinning, flashed back to when I was attacked and nearly killed outside Spokane. Only this time I was even more vulnerable.

I looked up to see an elderly, gray-haired man dressed in nice but outdated clothing.

“Are you okay?” he asked in a thick accent that sounded to me like Russian.

“I’m very dizzy.”

He crouched down next to me. “Have you been drinking?”

I noticed his Star of David pendant. “No. Everything just started spinning.”

“Do you have family or friends I could call?”

“No, I’m from Seattle,” I said. “Could you take me to a hospital or a clinic?”

“Yes. There is a hospital in Mitchell. I will drive you there.”

“I would appreciate that.”

“This is your pack?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“I will put it in my car.”

The man put my pack in his backseat then returned and helped me to his car, an older-model Chrysler. I moved slowly, holding my head. He opened the door and eased me in.

“Do not hit your head,” he said. When I was seated, he shut the door and walked around to the driver’s side and climbed in.

“I’ll try not to throw up in your car,” I said.

He laughed a little. “I would appreciate that.”

“No promises,” I said.

He started the car. “Are you familiar with the town of Mitchell?”

“No, sir.”

“There is the Avera Queen of Peace Hospital on Foster Street. We can be there in fifteen minutes.”