Hate that he just won’t go away. Fueled by frustration, I tilt my chin and return his glare. “I’m not a damsel in distress, and while I appreciate the concern, I don’t need your help. Besides,” I add, fumbling around in my collar for the cord hanging from my neck, “I have a whistle for emergencies.” When met with his blank stare, I start to feel all itchy, so I give the whistle a pathetic toot. “See? More than capable of getting out of sticky situations.” A dense beat passes. Then another.
