The woman standing on the other side of the hotel desk is in rough shape. She just arrived here in a cab and it's pretty obvious that she just threw on whatever clothes were within reach to make the trip.

"I need a room," she sobs.

Jen doesn't ask what's wrong; she's been here longer than me and has probably seen it all. We wait awkwardly for the woman to compose herself a little more before requesting an ID. She can't stop crying the whole time, even when another guest walks in.

"Are you all right, ma'am?" I ask.

She shakes her head. "My husband just beat me up," she says breathlessly.

I hesitate. I feel a little sick inside. I know this stuff happens every day, but never to anybody I know--or does it? I guess you can't be sure. Some women disguise it really well.

Not this one, though. None of that "I walked into a door" crap from her. The only marks visible on her are on her arms where his fingers bruised her, and you have to look close. If she just rolled up her sleeves and didn't cry, no one would be the wiser. But she's not trying to hide anything; in fact she just told the truth to perfect strangers, so maybe that's a good thing. She's not resigned to being hurt. She doesn't blame herself.

I ask her a few questions while Jen checks her in. We rarely take cash but this is an exception. Yes, she's called the police on him. Yes, he gets drunk and angry and then goes after her. Yes, she has kids but they're staying with their grandmother.

There are still a few minutes before my shift starts and she doesn't know how to use the key card. I open the door to her room and let her in. She flops on the bed, exhausted and miserable. So now what? All my life I've had chances to help others but I don't take them. I'm afraid of people, even people as afraid as I am.

"Sit up for me," I say. She does. I sit down next to her and just hold her for a while. She melts and cries in my arms. "It's okay. I've got you. It's going to be okay." Like I would know. "I'm probably not the first person to ask you this, but how many more times do you want this to happen?"

"Never," the woman says. "I hate him. He's put me in the hospital."

She asks me my name and I tell her. "Relax, get a good night's sleep," I say. "Then decide what you're going to do next."

I can't imagine what I would do in her position. She thanks me and I leave. It all took less than ten minutes, but it stays with me. Maybe her life will change for the better after this, maybe not. But it taught me something: that I am still capable of really caring for someone else. I was having doubts after spending so much time alone.

"I'm glad you talked to her," Jen remarks back at the desk. "You're a whole lot more compassionate than I would be, Nathan."

Me? Compassionate? I don't even like people. If they knew what a lean mixture I was running on some days, I doubt they'd want to be around me either. But I guess things could be worse. I could be some asshole who gets hammered and beats his wife. Or I could be running off, bruised and freezing in the middle of the night, to nothing but the kindness of strangers.

Are you there, God? Can you give her the help you didn't give me?