Gertrude White drove south on I-65, only a few miles from the turnoff for Greenwood, Indiana, exit 101. She noticed the fuel gauge was approaching the "E" mark. She decided that she would have to stop for fuel and Greenwood was as good a place as any.

At 90 years old, Gertrude was proud to say that she could still drive. She didn't need help from any young whippersnappers, thank you very much. Even so, dusk approached as the autumn sun lazily drifted ever closer to the distant horizon on this cool Sunday evening.

It had been a long weekend for Gertrude, flying to Chicago to attend her brother's funeral. His death left her feeling lonely; she was now the last living child in a family of nine. She and her siblings were raised by her grandpa after her parents mysteriously vanished when she was 10 years old. They had disappeared during a routine trip, leaving only their car to sit vacant on the side of the road.

Having hand-built the vehicle himself, her grandfather took the car and stored it in his garage. There it remained until he died from a heart attack at 98 years old. Her brother took possession of it and drove the car to his garage. It was the first and last time he operated the vehicle. He parked it in a shed and covered it with thick canvas, vowing to never drive it again but unwilling to explain why.

After his funeral, Gertrude attended a reading of her brother's will. It was a big waste of time as far as she was concerned. Being broke most of his life, the only thing her brother left her was the dusty old black jalopy she currently drove, the mysterious car parked and covered for so long. The will said that it was an alternative fuel vehicle but she saw nothing to indicate it.

She was glad to be heading home. The visit with the grandchildren was nice, but she always felt uncomfortable in that upscale, white neighborhood. She didn't consider herself to be a racist, but she was old enough to remember the "Jim Crow" laws back in the ‘60's.

Things like that had a way of sticking in a person's mind. Today's kids couldn't be held accountable for the actions of their parents of course, but she often reflected on such experiences while driving. Some were good, some were bad. She had encountered plenty of both in her life.

She saw a man on the side of the road, standing next to a car with an open hood. She imagined that he, too, had ran out of gas. Since she was planning to turn off at the next exit anyway, she considered stopping for him.

One part of her mind argued that an old, white-haired black woman had no good reason to put herself at risk unnecessarily. Yet another part scolded her. If she really wasn't a racist as she thought then this was a perfect time to prove it. After all, the poor man was white, but more importantly the young man was stranded. This was her chance to play the part of the Good Samaritan.

Against her better judgment, she decided to pull over. She stopped her car a bit further from him than she intended. She adjusted her glasses and looked in the rearview mirror. She saw him jogging toward her car.

The man may be white, but she grudgingly admitted that he was quite handsome. He was clean shaven and looked to be in his early twenties. He opened the passenger-side door and plopped down, out of breath.

He wore a tan trench coat, had light brown hair and the deepest set of blue eyes she had ever seen. With nary a cloud in the sky, she found the long leather coat to be an oddity. The last time she had seen one was in an old gangster movie. She thought it funny how even the oldest of fads can come back in style.

"Do you need some gas, young man?" She felt stupid for asking the question almost immediately. He didn't have a gas can with him.