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over my face and touched a big gash on my forehead right under my hairline. I felt dizzy, my stomach getting queasy, but I was still too terrified of the guy following me to give in to weakness.
    I looked around and didn’t see the police car anymore, and even though the guy was nowhere in sight, I knew he could come back at any moment. I couldn’t risk standing around. Instead of dwelling on the pain in my knees and the blood on my face, I pressed my fingers tight against my forehead and started running back to the motel.
    By the time I finally made my way back to the room, blood was running down my neck, soaking the neckline of my t-shirt. Seeing the cut in the mirror terrified me. It was about half an inch long and blood continued gushing out. It probably needed a few stitches, but not having access to health insurance, money or anyone to take me to the doctors, I resolved to take care of it myself.
    I grabbed some tissue paper from the counter and put pressure on the cut with my fingers. It took about twenty minutes for the blood flow to stop and by then I was exhausted and completely worn out .
    As I lie in bed and let the tears flow now, I wonder for the millionth time, how my life could get to this in a matter of weeks. How is it possible to lose everything you hold dear, everything you have worked so hard for so quickly? Why? Why me? I keep thinking. What did I do wrong to deserve to be punished like this? And more importantly, what the hell I am going to do now?
    I have barely enough money to last me another two nights at the motel and after that, I am homeless. The thought of becoming homeless is so terrifying to me that as soon as it crosses my mind, I feel sick to my stomach. That can’t happen to me, I keep thinking. I’m too scared of being on the streets.
    I go over all my options again in my head and try to come up with a solution. Then just when I am about to give in to despair, suddenly a light bulb goes off in my head, as I remember the old man by the ocean. He gave me his card and said I could call him.
    I grab my purse off the floor and start frantically looking for his card. When I finally find it, relief washes over me. Even though, I have no idea who he is, my gut tells me he can help. I pull out my laptop and Google his name, David Pierson.
    Article after article comes up of the successful billionaire CEO and founder of Pierson Investments, an investment firm founded in San Francisco with offices spanning the globe now. One of the articles at the top mentions he recently retired from all his roles at the company due to undisclosed health problems.
    I click on Google Images to find out more information and gasp. The guy in the pictures looks nothing like the fragile old man I saw the other day at the park. The man in the pictures looks much younger and much more confident. He holds himself as a man of authority, a successful businessman, nothing like the sweet old man who told me he almost killed himself years ago.
    I go back and read a couple of articles to learn about what Pierson Investments does and how David started it. After I have learned enough about him to verify what he told me is true, I pick up my phone and dial his number before I have a chance to chicken out. Asking for help from a complete stranger is not easy for me, and the fact that I just learned this guy is the founder and former CEO of a major investment firm does not help my nerves.
    I hold the phone close to my ear with a trembling hand and wait. The phone rings and rings, but no one picks up. Finally, a voicemail greeting comes on. I leave him a brief message and hope for the best.
    By the time I hang up, I am even more exhausted than before, but at least now, I have a small ray of hope. If the kindhearted old man I saw last week who gave me his card and offered to help me is a billionaire former CEO, he should be able to find me a job. I close my eyes and finally let sleep take over, and for the first time in five days, I