I went to Charleston for a peaceful pottery retreat—just me, some clay, and a break from my quiet post-retirement life. But one small act of kindness changed everything.While walking through the historic district, I let a young woman with a crying baby use my phone for ten seconds. She made a cryptic call—“It’s moving. One hour. You know where.”—then vanished down a side street.Two days later,

police showed up at my hotel door. The woman, Eliza, never made it to a meeting with them. Turns out, she was part of an ongoing federal investigation. My phone call? The last trace they had of her.I thought it ended there—until the night before I left,