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were frozen.
    Still holding the blade two inches above me, he grabbed my messenger bag and dumped the contents onto the pavement. He snatched my wallet and my cell phone, and with a bang of my head to the pavement, he ran off.
    I lay there stunned, my head ringing.
    “Honey, are you okay?” The words whirled around in my head. After blinking my eyes several times, things came back into focus. A buxom African American woman was crouching over me. I sat up slowly and rubbed my sore head with one hand. My other hand was a bloody mess; my skirt was torn, and I ached all over. I looked down at my stinging knee. There was a huge gash on it, and blood was dripping down to my ankle.
    The kindly woman helped me gather the contents of my messenger bag. My sketchpad… little book of sayings… keys… and some pens and pencils. Tears stung my eyes.
    “Do you want me to take you to the emergency room?” asked the woman.
    I shook my head. “Do you have a cell phone I can borrow?” I asked, my voice shaky and desperate. She whipped out an iPhone from her large purse and handed it to me. I googled two words and gave her back the phone. Tears were streaming down my face.
    “Honey, are you sure you’re okay?” The expression on her face was one of genuine concern. After my vicious assault, it was reassuring there were still good Samaritans in this world. Philadelphia was still after all the “City of Brotherly Love.”
    I nodded. “Could you tell me how to get to Center City?”
    “That’s a couple of miles downtown,” she replied. “My car’s parked across the street, and I’m headed that way. Can I give you a ride?”
    I was touched by this stranger’s kindness. With my head throbbing and body aching. I accepted her offer. She also gave me a tissue so that I could clean up my bloody hand and knee. The wounds bled right through it.
    The woman dropped me off in front of an imposing, futuristic glass-and-steel tower. I thanked her for the lift and let myself out of her SUV.
    I dragged myself into the building, barely able to push the revolving doors. I was vaguely aware of people staring at me. Some gaped while others cupped a hand to their mouths. I must have looked beyond terrible… frightening. A bloody, disheveled, torn-up mess. I staggered up to the alphabetically listed tenant informationboard. My eyes roamed down the listings until they landed on the “G” section. Golden Industries—36th floor .
    The elevator ride to his office seemed like eternity. Why did have to be the last stop? I tried to hide in a corner, but couldn’t avoid the horrified faces of people who boarded along the way. I felt faint.
    At last, the elevator reached my destination. The doors slid open, and I stumbled into a sky-high palace of glass, shiny marble, and sleek black leather. Several suits were seated in the lobby, but were too engrossed in magazines or their digital devices to notice me. I staggered up the receptionist’s desk, a sleek jet-age console behind which “Golden Industries” blazed on the stark white wall.
    The receptionist, an attractive blonde in her late twenties, wearing earphones, took one look at me and gasped. I thought she would call security had I not managed the words, “I need to see Mr. Golden.”
    “Do you have an appointment with him?” she asked suspiciously, her fingers reaching for the phone.
    I wiped my tears with my bleeding, dirty palm. “Please tell him that Sarah Greene is here,” I begged. Please.
    She pressed three buttons on the phone. I prayed it was the extension of Ari’s assistant and not security.
    “There’s a Ms. Greene to see Mr. Golden,” she said. “He may wish to bring security with him.”
    I cringed. Never in my whole life had I felt so mortified and demoralized. My hip roared with pain, and the scrapes on my limbs stung like fire. I glanced down at my scraped knee; it was still bleeding like crazy. My entire lower leg was now a bloody mess.
    Two familiar long legs marched