Heading into the airport drop off lane, I was in the car behind you. Suddenly, the SUV in which you were a front passenger came to an abrupt halt, and your door flung open (or was it that the door opened, and so the car stopped? I now know it was the latter.)
When the door opened, you fell with great force, from a decent height, out of the car and on to the ground. You were on your hands and knees, but quickly straightened up, slammed the door, and rushed into the building. I noticed that your driver had made a large flurried gesture with his hands in your direction as you fell. Stunned, I immediately thought you had you been pushed. Your driver waited a couple of seconds after you left, and then sped off.
I wasn’t sure what I had witnessed, but I knew you had not simply stumbled. I leapt out of my own car to check on you. But you were fast. By the time I caught up with you, you were standing deep in the security queue. To the displeasure of other passengers, I forced my way to where you were and asked, “Are you ok?”
You knew what I was talking about. You were very young, early twenties I estimated, you were trembling, and had obviously been crying, but you looked me in the eye and said, “I’m ok.”
“Did he push you?”
“I jumped,” you said in a strong, stable voice. And then you gave a wry laugh. “I just needed to get away and get on this plane.”
I thrust my business card into your hand and told you that I could help you. You were surprised, and thanked me. I watched you clear security, worried that he would follow you…and then you disappeared into the relative safety of the departures area.