Kayla Cumsalot 1844-33-CANDY ext 357
It’s after eleven p.m. on a cold, rainy night. You’re in bed, watching the last episode of your show before you plan to turn out the lights and tuck in. However, the doorbell chimes. Who could it be at this hour? Worried someone could be in danger, you hurry to the door in just your boxers.
I’m standing there under the dim lamp of the porch light, drenched from the rain and shivering. My tiny cocktail dress does nothing to keep out the cold. My large, brown eyes look up at you, “Please, Mister. My car broke down and my phone isn’t working. I’m so cold and need to call a tow truck. May I come inside?”
