"I had little to go on and no time to waste. An address on the other side of Paris. A 650cc motorcycle. And a voicemail with screams and panic. I’d been to the address one night before. I had slept in the single bed in a closet-like room. The old Parisian woman rented this room to foreign students. We later discovered the courts had set one constraint on the woman, due to the son’s previous convictions, that if she were to continue renting her room, she mustn’t ever let her son live in the house or possess a key. Luckily, the drivers here are used to this kind of erratic weaving. My mind reconstructs the scene on the other end of the phone, trying to work out what the terror and instant need for me is. Only her voice. There are no traffic lights, I’d be able to explain why if I get stopped. Onto the sidewalk, and up to the door to the building. My helmet left on the floor. Announcing my arrival with the giant echo of the emergency door slamming open in the concrete stairwell. Up 4 flights and into the corridor. Her room is directly next to the door. My thumping is quickly answered by her. She retreats immediately into her room and I follow. With tears and hardly any words she tells me her attacker is still in the apartment. The son. Months later the court heard how we left. Her, holding an overfilled bag in her two arms, and me holding a neck pinned against a wall. We left the bike and hailed a taxi to now our home."