I didn’t think. I just moved—grabbed the handle and hurled myself out of the van. Gravel tore my jeans and palms. I hit the shoulder, rolled, and sprinted for the trees. My lungs burned. My heart thundered.

It had started like any other ride. I’d hitched dozens of times—usually with friends. Arlen seemed safe enough: clean van, easy smile. But fifteen minutes in, I caught the sharp sting of bleach in the air. Then came the questions. “Anyone know you’re out here?” He reached for the glove box. I jumped.

A jogger found me, sobbing in a ditch. Cops later found the van abandoned behind a diner. “Arlen” was actually Denny Caldwell—a ghost missing for years. The van? Stolen from a dead woman. In the back: tarp, zip ties, a still-recording GoPro. Beneath the floor mat, bloody hair and a melted plastic bracelet: pink beads spelling “B-E-L-L-A.”

The FBI took over. Footage showed dozens of girls. Most just nervous. Some—crying, zip-tied, pleading. One was never identified. My face hit every screen: “Young Woman Escapes Serial Predator.” But I didn’t feel lucky. I felt hollow. Then came the packages: a Polaroid of the bracelet, motel footage from a place I’d once stayed. He’d been close. Six months later, hikers found a boot and backpack. DNA matched Denny. In his notes: “She knew. She jumped. They always think they escape. But they carry you inside.”

I did—for a while. Until Eddie. Gentle, steady. Volunteered where I taught art. One day he held up a bracelet kit. “Know how to make these?” That night, I made one for a girl named Nia. Helping others started to help me.

Two years later, my first exhibit: Escape Velocity. Reclaimed wreckage. Survivor stories. Centerpiece: a woman mid-leap, hair like fire. Not just survival—freedom.

Have you ever trusted your gut and leapt? Tell someone. It might save a life.