Christmas, 2005. My mother and daughter had flown in from China to visit me in Arizona. Together with my classmate Qiao and her family, we rented a minivan and headed for the Grand Canyon.
The kids giggled in the back while I navigated with a giant paper map across my lap. When we passed a gas station, the tank was still half-full.
“We’ll stop on the way back.”
Famous last words.
After watching a spectacular sunset, I found a shortcut that would get us to our hotel an hour sooner. Soon, we were driving through a quiet, snow-dusted forest. Beautiful scenery. No gas stations.
Then the fuel light came on. A little later, the engine stopped.
Six people. No fuel. No phone signal. And now it was snowing.
As the van grew colder, Qiao and I stepped outside, hoping to flag down a passing driver. Eventually, headlights appeared. A large truck pulled over, and a middle-aged woman welcomed us into her warm cab.
With country music playing on the radio, she told us she’d run out of gas herself—twice. I could have hugged her.
A taxi ride and a container of gas later, we were back on the road.
I’d set out that day expecting to remember the Grand Canyon. Instead, I remember a stranger who stopped in the dark.
And whenever my fuel gauge reaches halfway, I look for a gas station.