To: The man on Culbreth Road at 4:46 a.m. on May 18 waving his arms for me to stop.

All in an instant. Blurry except for your face and arms. Your face, powdery white in the light of the headlights though obviously a darker complexion. Your arms waving, pleading large and desperate, rhythmically as if you were bringing in a jet for a landing, or were a bird at take off in a slow motion nature show. Your mouth, rounded, making one word, "STOP."

I did not.

Why? You needed help. Why did I not stop?

I slowed the car and looked at you. I watched your arms fall, swinging naturally from your short-sleeved T-shirt as you walked toward my slowing vehicle. Your face had changed. Relieved? Triumphant? I could not read it. It was too dark to see your eyes clearly. I could only feel. Eyes and brain processing. No blood. No visible car or accident. A metal rail lined the sidewalk where you originally stood waving. Maybe a car had gone over into a ravine?

I could see you but could not feel your need. Why could I not feel you in that way?

Walking straight and quickly, you were almost to the passenger side of my car, my left index finger on the power window button preparing to roll it down just a crack, so that I might hear your words, right foot still lightly on the gas pedal. Approaching quickly, makes sense if you need help. You were not the one injured? Deep breath in. My right foot presses hard. I watched in the rearview mirror to see if you run or follow. I could not tell. It was too dark. Matchbox 20 playing from the trip at 2 a.m. when my husband went to pick up our son after the prom "Let's see how far we've co-ome. Let's see how far we've co-ome."

I pulled over, hands shaking now, turned down the music and called 911. I did not STOP.

"What color was his shirt?"

"Gray I think, a T-shirt, short sleeves. "

"His pants? "

"Dark, maybe denim but I think black."

"How old did he appear to be?"

"Maybe 20, 30, I do not know."

"Caucasian, black, Hispanic?

"He was dark, maybe Hispanic, dark hair."

"Was there a vehicle?

"No. Not in sight. Sir, I called because I did not STOP. I was alone in the car and was afraid. He may have been in an accident, but I was too afraid to STOP. Can you please check on him?"

I gave the officer my name, number, directions to where I had seen you waving -- details. Yet I did not tell him the whole truth. I did not tell the officer I was also worried about the next car driving by, who might stop -- male or female -- what were your intentions? I did not tell him that this was how I imagined young Ira Yarmolenko, whose memorial service I had attended the day before, was probably lured in and later killed. She would have trusted you, a man with waving arms saying "STOP!" She would have stopped. I would have trusted when I was 20. I may have trusted you two weeks ago. If her man had only needed help, she would have been right. Alive. Was she wrong? Should I have stopped, too? Was a call enough? Not for you. Not for the man with unreadable eyes who waved arms desperately flagging me down to please STOP! Not if you were sincere. You must still be sad and angry, asking why I did not stop to help. Sir, I am sad and angry, too. I am asking why. I am sorry.

I am hopeful that my intuition was wrong about you. I am hopeful that the police found you and helped you. I am hopeful you will read this and feel better knowing that I wanted to STOP but did not. Again, I am sorry.