The frumpy woman was on the sidewalk in front of the house next door to Nate's. A man was trying to wrest her bag from her shoulder, but she held on tight. A silver sedan, its door standing open, idled beside them. The man was easily eight inches taller than the woman, and muscular. He had a crew cut and wore a goatee. Though the woman had screamed, now they were both quiet as they tugged on the bag. The man landed a punch to the woman's shoulder, but she didn't let go.

Every instinct told Note to run into his house and lock the door, but that wasn't who he was, no matter how loudly fear pulsed in his ears. He forced his mouth to open. Forced a shout.

"Hey!"

The man spotted him, gave one last yank on the bag.

The woman, arms hooked in the straps, stumbled forward and landed on the sidewalk. Her head hit the cement with a thud.

The man gave up on the purse, jumped in his car, and squealed away.

Nate looked at the car as he ran to the woman's side. Newish Chevy, silver. No plate.

He reached the woman and helped her sit. Blood trickled from a wound on her forehead.

"Are you okay?"

She winced and squinted. "I...I think so."

He recognized the signs of a pounding head. He crouched beside her. "Don't try to move yet. Just take a deep breath. I'll call 9-1-1."

"Did you get a plate number?"

"There wasn't one."

"Don't bother. They won't care." While she calmed herself, he looked for other wounds. A little blood had dripped into her eyebrow. She had plain brown eyes and a pale complexion. Aside from the bleeding head wound, she seemed all right.

"You sure you don't want me to call the police?"

"They'll never find the guy."

She wasn't wrong. "Does anything else hurt? Your shoulder? Looked like he hit you."

She rubbed the shoulder. "Just bruised, I think."

"Can you stand?"

She started to nod, stopped herself with a wince, and said, "Yeah."

He helped her to her feet. "Do you live far?"

"Kind of."

He looked at his front door, then back at the woman. She seemed harmless, and she was injured. He had nothing to fear. "Why don't you come inside, and I'll help you clean up that cut."

He expected her to protest. What intelligent woman goes into a house with a man she's never met?

"Thanks."

Okay, then. A risk taker. He walked beside her to his door. "I've already packed a lot of my furniture."

She stepped inside and looked at the nearly empty living room. "I see that."

"There's a chair in the kitchen."

He led her into the kitchen and indicated the single chair, then pulled a paper towel off the roll and handed it to her. "You're bleeding."

She pressed it over the wound.

"Be right back."