Talitha Koum: The Little Girl by the Roadside

A story about bread, broken bones, and the fragile thread of human decency.

🔥 Embers — essays, poetry, and cultural works

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It was one of those nights—the kind where brush cuts shadows across your headlights just right, and the fence posts look like they’re leaning because they’re tired of standing. That kind of night.

I was headed home—late—from checking my property out toward Van Horn.

I’d been driving nearly two hours. The sky was dark as a well. Out there, you can go a good stretch without seeing a soul—not even a porch light flickering in the distance.

That’s when I saw a heap by the roadside, just past a bend where the shoulder dips. Looked like a bundle of clothes. My gut told me to stop—so I did. Eased the truck over, left the lights on, got out slow.

It was a little girl.

Maybe seven, maybe eight—I couldn’t tell in that dim light. She had a backpack clutched tight in one hand, blood on her leg, and the way that leg was laying, I knew it was broken. Badly broken. She was out cold.

I called out. Listened. No answer but the wind. I swept my light up and down the ditch, across the scrub. No wreck. No skid marks. No other people. No sign of how she’d come to be there.

Just her.

She was small. Skinny as a fawn. Skin the color of wet earth, hair matted to her forehead. Clothes torn, one shoe missing. I knelt down and felt her pulse—faint, but steady.

I didn’t think. Not really. Just moved.

I lifted her careful—real careful—slid her into the passenger seat, propped her leg as best I could. Grabbed her pack too, tucked it by her side.

Then I turned that truck around and drove back toward Gus’s Filling Station—the nearest thing to help, twelve miles east.

She stirred once on that drive. Eyes fluttered, lips dry. In a voice like the brush whispering, she asked, “¿Dónde estoy?”

I answered softly, “You’re safe now. We’re going to get you help.”

She faded again.

When I reached Gus’s, the lights were still on—he always stayed open late on Fridays.

I ran in fast, told him I had a girl with a broken leg and needed a first-aid kit. He didn’t ask a damn thing. Just grabbed a kit off the shelf, handed me a six-pack of bottled water and some bread, and said, “Go.”

But something stopped me as I climbed back in the truck. I kept thinking—what if she didn’t wake again? What if I was carrying a Jane Doe to that ER? She needed a name. Somebody needed to know who she was.

So, I opened her backpack. Careful, respectful.

First thing I found was a small change purse—no ID inside. Next, a worn and dirty change of clothes, rolled tight. Some crumpled papers, too faded to read. Then a Bible—old, thin-paged, held together with tape and tenacity.

It near opened itself when I touched it.

I saw the bookmark—a folded scrap of paper peeking from Mark, Chapter Five.

Didn’t think much on it then. I was looking for her name, not scripture. But it lodged in the back of my head all the same.

No papers. No card. No clue who she belonged to. I zipped it all back up and drove off.

The hospital was nearly forty minutes out. I drove hard—not reckless, but hard. I could hear her breathing shift with every bump in the road.

About ten miles out, she woke again. This time, her eyes stayed open—dark, wide, flickering like they were seeing too much.

I glanced over and asked softly, “Agua?”

She gave a tiny nod.

I unscrewed a bottle, held it to her lips. She drank slow, careful. I could see her hand shaking when she reached to steady it.

I set the bottle aside and reached for the bread next. Broke it in half—an old habit. Something my grandpa used to do when you were going through it, to let you know you weren’t alone.

I held the bread out to her. At first, she just stared at it. Then, after a beat, her little fingers came out and took it—gentle, like holding a bird.

We rode on in silence after that.

No more words. Just the hum of the road, the breath between us.

At the hospital, they admitted her right away. Our eyes spoke our silent goodbyes.

The next morning, I found myself down at Dot’s. I reckon I hadn’t slept much. The coffee was hot. The eggs were rubber. Didn’t matter.

I was sitting at the counter when Sheriff Harper came in.

He pulled up a stool and looked at me hard. “Heard you came tearing through town last night,” he said. “Something happen?”

I took a breath. “Found a little girl on the side of the road,” I told him. “Hurt bad. No sign of anyone else. Got her to the ER.”

Pete frowned. “I didn’t get a call?”

I shook my head. “No.”

That earned me a long look. He leaned in. “That ain’t like you, Tom.”

I stared at my coffee awhile before speaking. “I’ll tell you why,” I said. “You ever hear about Margaret Mead?”

He looked puzzled. “The anthropologist? Can’t say I’ve heard much.”

I nodded. “Story goes, someone once asked her what the first sign of civilization was. She didn’t say it was farming or ranching. Not even a tool or a fire pit—she said it was a healed femur. That the first sign is somebody stopping long enough to care for someone else. Meant folks were looking out for each other, not just leaving their injured behind like a pack of coyotes.”

Pete said nothing. Just listened.

I went on. “That girl was hurt bad. She needed a doctor, not a badge. And with how things are these days—hell, you know it—they’re making ‘em sleep on concrete…sometimes calling the wrong person gets a kid lost in there, or worse.”

I looked up at him. “I reckon civilization ain’t the laws we write. It’s what we do when no one’s watching. When it’s just us and the choice in front of us.”

He rubbed his chin.

I added, “The Bible in that girl’s pack was bookmarked at Mark, Chapter Five. I’ve read the whole chapter a hundred times this morning. I figured maybe the only thing that mattered last night was helping that girl rise.”

Pete let out a slow breath. “You did right.”

I didn’t answer. Just sipped my coffee, eyes on the window. The sun was climbing up through the mesquite.

And out there somewhere—maybe in a hospital bed, maybe already moving on—was a little girl I broke bread with in the dark.

That’s all I knew.

And it was enough.

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