The Kindness of Strangers

Call me Scarlet. I not only rely on the kindness of strangers, I’m sunk without it.

I’ve been up since 0-Dark:30 scrambling to make my flight to San Francisco and the RWA Nationals. Any time I travel, I always feel like all my stuff becomes a jumble. Oh, it starts out neat and tidy, but once I’ve been hustled through check-in and then through the anal exam of airport security, who knows where anything is?

I shove my shoes back on and decide I need some water. So I pull out everything again to pay for it, and while I’m trying to stuff everything back into my carry-on and get out of the way of the man behind me, my drivers license, my one and only piece of photo ID, drops silently to the ground.

Bless the man’s heart! He points it out to me and my trip is saved when I hadn’t even realized it was in peril. This is proof positive that God protects children and fools . . . and romance writers.

Or maybe I fit into that second group . . .