As soon as she could catch a breath, the distressed woman fell against my chest and broke into sobs. The hands I wrapped around her felt how thin she was. My heart could tell how scared she was.

She had wandered onto George Street near Del Crary Park, fighting to take off one of her three coats as if it were attacking her. Stumbling and oblivious to traffic, she had no idea the danger she was in.

After circling the block, I found her in a parking lot. Standing shock still. Tears streamed down her face.

At the sound of my voice, she looked up but still seemed so lost. Until she found an ounce of comfort in my arms.

Once she could speak, her first words asked why someone would give her drugs that would do this to her. She was terrified and shaking. Betrayed.

After a few breaths, I guided her to the car and out of the wind. She almost slumped into sleep but awoke to cry some more.

“Where can I take you where you can be safe?” I asked.

She seemed reluctant to move quite yet so she asked to go for a drive. For the next several minutes, we poked around the city as she rested.

These few moments of two people just hanging out and watching the world go by provided a sense of normalcy that helped her return to clarity. The drugs were loosening their grip on her, letting her enjoy a simple pleasure of life.

All along, I saw her as a woman with no one to help her. Someone who could easily get robbed, hit by a car or ridiculed into further emotional chaos.

The idea of calling for an ambulance or police officer never crossed my mind. Neither was the option to keep driving. She needed compassion and a safe space.

I suspended the usual judgments that make us prioritize our comfort level, disguising it as personal safety. And I flashed back to the number of times I hadn’t helped — then the regrets that arose for months afterward.

Watching a scantily clad woman walk numbly along Hunter Street on a Sunday morning, completely zoned out. Barefoot and incredibly thin. The shock of seeing her made all of us freeze, then go back to our coffees with a shake of our heads.

Doing a double take when I saw a teenaged sex worker being escorted to Bethune Street in a short skirt and heavy eyeliner. Looking like she wanted to throw up rather than go where she was heading.

We stopped to get a cold drink, which she guzzled. As she drank, I noticed the damage to her hands. Bloodied nails and a puffiness that spoke of addiction. So many needles into so few veins.

Later, thanks to an online search, I learned that certain drugs cause dehydration, causing excessive thirst. Now, I understood why she asked for a larger bottle.

This realization changed nothing. She was still a vulnerable woman with limited options in the moment.

Eventually, she pointed the way home. She lived a few blocks south of where I had found her. She peeled back on the three coats she had removed within the warmth of the car and apologized for the pile of snotty Kleenexes left behind.

As I helped her with her final inside-out sleeve, by now on the sidewalk, we fell into another hug. This time, she felt more stable on her feet and her voice was clearer and stronger.

All it took was a little caring and a short drive.

© Peterborough Examiner