I thought my day was going perfectly—just mom and daughter, strolling through our local farmers market early Saturday morning, cart full of fresh blooms, earthy produce, and the smell of freshly baked bread. Perfect, right?
So, naturally, I swung by the Shell station on the way home to refuel. But guess what? No regular gas. Nada. Nothing. They were completely out. On a weekend morning, no less.
I shrugged it off—confident I’d find another station no problem. Two miles down the road: we’re out of gas. Completely. My daughter Myla is crying—sweaty, sticky, and unhappy. The heat is brutal, the kind that drips down your back in seconds. I’m empty-tanked, sweating, with a toddler in my lap. Nightmare.
I call a tow truck to deliver gas. They tell me they’re swamped—an hour wait. An hour. With a toddler. In that heat. It’s one of those moments where you feel stuck, helpless. But then, home in sight—the call I make next changes everything.
I phone the local police. I ask a favor so human it makes me cringe: can we sit in your car just to cool off while we wait? I half-expect a refusal, but then Officer Larison pulls up moments later.
She offers us refuge from the heat—air conditioning cranked—and we sink gratefully into those cool seats. She even says, “Let me get someone to bring some gas.” Twenty minutes later, another officer arrives with a gas can. I can’t remember her name, but I’ll always remember her smile.
She pours fuel into my tank, making sure the clock ticks forward again. And then, like a guardian angel in uniform—she follows me to the nearest operating station, ready to make sure I’m okay. Can you just imagine? In a day that started with nothing—no gas, no hope, no relief—there she was, steady and kind.
While we sat in the patrol car, Myla toddled over and stretched out her chubby hand to ask to hold the officer’s badge. She cradled it, asked her name—who I wish I could’ve noted—and then cracked this grin so wide it warmed the whole car. Even the officer couldn’t help but laugh, her face lighting up.
In that vehicle, with Myla’s giggles filling the space, I thought about how easy it is to let a few bad stories shape how we see everyone wearing a badge. But there, in those quieter scenes, in that gentle act of compassion, I saw something else entirely: a person who cares, stepping up like any neighbor would.
She wasn’t a headline. She was just a human being doing good. And that matters. A lot.
— Jack, a frazzled mom who got more than just gas filled that morning