This story is a true story about the last Friday in February 2026. Here’s the scene: It’s 3:46 p.m., Friday, Feb. 27. I’m driving on Interstate 70 Eastbound in Washington County, Maryland. A man named Jon stopped to help me; he later drove me to my wife. This is that story.
On Friday, February 27, 2026, I left my office at the David W. Fletcher Incubator + Labs at Hagerstown Community College in the afternoon and drove over to the Pennsylvania Dutch Market.
I sat down around 2:30 in the afternoon. Three-piece dark. Lima beans. Mac and cheese. My usual. I purchased potato candy to go this time, which I am never supposed to have.
I left the Dutch Market in Hagerstown around 3:15, got on Interstate 70 eastbound, and headed home to Gaithersburg. I was driving my 2020 SUV. It was a clear afternoon, cold, but in the way, late February isn’t too bad in Western Maryland. I was thinking about work, my wife, Kim, the weekend, the kids, the dog, the cats, life, having more kids, all kinds of things.
At 3:46 p.m., traffic stopped.
Not slowed.
Stopped.
Completely.
Immediately.
On an interstate.
I had nowhere to go.
I swerved left to avoid the vehicles that had stopped in front of me.
My SUV clipped the end of another vehicle and ended up in the embankment off the left side of Interstate 70 eastbound, almost to the top of the ridge as you leave Washington County heading toward Frederick.
I’m not entirely certain, but I believe that nearly every airbag in my vehicle deployed. The steering wheel airbag. The side curtain airbags. The cabin filled with that burnt chemical smell that airbags leave behind, and for a few seconds, I sat there trying to understand what had just happened.
I’m okay. It was a rough day. I’m not being stoic – but the day was tough. Everybody involved – all okay.
Within seconds of the crash, my vehicle’s crash detection system went off. So did my Apple Watch, triggering my iPhone’s crash detection. I’m sure glad I set that up! My iPhone sent an alert to every emergency contact – my “In Case of Emergency” contacts. Apparently, when the crash detection activates, it makes a sound that scares the hell out of everybody on the receiving end.
All the people closest to me reached out immediately: My wife, Kim, and our son, Josh. Our daughter Paige was horrified by the sound of her iPhone. My mother called immediately. My dad called immediately. My stepfather, Leon, reached out ASAP. Before I had finished processing what had happened, the people who love me already knew.
On the other side of the interstate, at the very same time, a tractor-trailer had overturned on I-70 westbound.
The Maryland State Highway Administration posted the alert at 2:52 p.m. that day: “Crash closes WB I-70 before MD 66. Detours are in place.” The westbound lanes shut down. Traffic backed up for miles in both directions. Emergency vehicles lined the shoulder.
And I was sitting in a ditch. On the side of Interstate 70 Eastbound.
What Happens After An Auto Accident?
The accident happens in seconds.
Your body reacts before your brain can process it. Adrenaline does what adrenaline does. You check yourself. You check your hands. You move your legs. You reach for your phone. You call 911. You breathe.
It’s everything that comes after the adrenaline fades that gets you.
A Maryland State Police trooper arrived at the accident scene on 70 and stayed with me for a while. The State Trooper was professional, calm, and decent. But at a certain point, he told me he had to head out. I was no longer an active accident on the interstate. I understood. He had other calls. That is the job. I respect it.
So I called my auto insurance company while I waited on the side of 70 Eastbound; I filed the entire claim. I might as well make myself useful. I would have opened my laptop on the side of 70 if it wasn’t too weird. I guess that’s weird, but I had work to do!
I did all the things that I have trained my brain to do in moments like this – because I have been through enough in my life to know that when everything goes sideways, you work the list. You make the calls. You send the emails. You record the information. You write it down. You store it. You handle what you can handle. It’s how I’m programmed.
I called a Frederick tow company – Grimm’s Automovation in Frederick, Md. Wonderful experience! Grimm’s towed my car out of the ditch when they finally got to the other side of 70. Truly, thank you, Grimm’s. I highly recommend them.
And then one of the funniest things occurred that day as I was on the phone with an insurance auto claims agent. Somebody driving past on the interstate yelled down at me in the embankment: “Hey, you can’t park there!”
I laughed out loud. That’s my sense of humor. I mean, I laughed good. Standing in a ditch next to what could be a totaled vehicle with the airbags deployed – I laughed.
I did not even know that was a thing people said until I told my dad about it later and we both had a big laugh, because that is our style of humor. We would have probably done the same thing. Of course, we would have; we’re Miners.
But the sun started to go down that Friday evening. And it was getting chilly.
Kim was driving from D.C. She got stuck in Frederick traffic near Urbana for a bit. My parents were on the other end of Washington County, and with the westbound lanes shut down, it would have been nearly impossible for them to reach me before midnight.
So there I was – alone. In a ditch. Off Interstate 70. In the dark. In late February in Maryland.
And that is when something happened that I need to tell you about.
After the Accidents, You Look For The Helpers
Mr. Rogers taught me to “look for the helpers.” When encountering scary life events or catastrophes. It’s a lesson Mr. Rogers’ mother taught him. “There will always be helpers.”
Before Jon, other passerbyers stopped on the side of the interstate: A nurse from Meritus Medical Center pulled over to check on me. An off-duty fire and police officer stopped on the shoulder to ask if I was okay, if I needed them to call somebody, or if I needed water. Total strangers, every one of them, who saw a car in a ditch and a person standing beside it and decided they could not drive past.
I want to acknowledge those people because each one of them made a choice. The interstate was a mess. Traffic – backed up. People were frustrated and tired and trying to get home on a Friday evening. A
nd folks chose to stop – for me. That choice is not nothing. That means the world to me. If you are reading this and you remember stopping that Friday, thank you. Truly, thank you.
But it was around 8 p.m. or so (maybe before, maybe a bit after) Friday evening when a truck pulled over in front of me on the left shoulder of I-70 eastbound.
A man jumped out of his truck.
“Are you okay?” he shouted down at me, as I was still standing in the ditch, next to my vehicle, now with a dead battery.
His name is Jon Bruley.
Jon Bruley
Jon was on his way back from helping a friend with a construction project in Washington County.
He saw me still stranded in the embankment. He put out flares. He walked down to where I was standing and asked me what had happened and whether I needed help.
I quickly told him my story. He told me his.
Jon Bruley has over 35 years in public safety. He is a semi-retired firefighter who still volunteers in Frederick County. He has a son who is a police officer. He runs a security company called Smoketown Security Services out of Frederick, Maryland, a company he started in 2020, in the middle of the pandemic, because he wanted to do things differently.
I didn’t know any of this when Jon pulled over. All I knew was that it was dark and cold, and that a stranger in a truck had stopped to ask if I was okay.
Jon even asked me if I wanted to sit in the truck because he could tell it was getting cold.
So I did.
Jon and I sat in his truck on the shoulder of Interstate 70 for a bit. The westbound lane was slowly reopening, but traffic was at a standstill. Emergency lights were still flashing, and the whole stretch of highway looked like something out of a movie you would rather not be in.
Jon and I talked. Not about the accident. About life. About his career in public safety. About his son. About what he was building with his business. About the kind of work that matters to him.
While we sat in his truck, Jon took a call from his son. Then he talked to his wife. I watched him talk to them the way I talk to mine. Reassuring. Present. Letting them know where he was and that he was okay.
And it hit me, sitting in the passenger seat of a stranger’s truck on the shoulder of a dark interstate, that Jon and I had just a bit in common that evening. We were just guys trying to get home to our wives on a Friday evening.
Jon talked to his son. I had talked to mine earlier. He talked to his wife. I talked to Kim several times that day. The only difference between us was that Jon saw someone who needed help on his way home, and he stopped.
And then I called my wife, Kim, from Jon’s truck. She and I were managing logistics in real time, figuring out how to get me to Frederick, where she parked, just off 270.
Jon heard the conversation and said something I will not forget.
“I can take you.”
A Stranger Drove Me to My Wife
I want you to sit with that for a second.
A man whom I never met, who had been working earlier that day on a construction project in Washington County, who was tired and heading home on a Friday evening, who had every reason to keep driving, saw a person in a ditch, pulled over, put out flares, invited me into his warm truck, and then offered to drive me 25 miles to Frederick to meet my wife.
He did not know me.
He did not know my name.
He did not know what I do for a living, where I live, or anything about my life. He saw someone who needed help, and he helped.
Jon drove me to the Firebirds parking lot in Frederick, right by the Regal Westview cinemas. Kim was waiting for me. And when I saw her, I could finally breathe. Kim can always calm me down. She has that ability; she always has. It’s a talent, believe me.
Jon suggested that Kim and I take a load off and grab some dinner at Firebirds.
So Kim and I walked into Firebirds in Frederick, ordered some food, took it home, and decompressed after one of the most stressful days I have had in a long time.
The Kind of Person Who Stops For A Total Stranger On An Interstate
I have been thinking about Jon every day since a few Fridays ago.
I keep thinking about what it takes to be the kind of person who stops for a total stranger on the side of an interstate. Not the kind of person who sees a car in a ditch and thinks “somebody else will handle it.” Not the kind of person who slows down, looks, and keeps going.
The kind of person who pulls over, puts out flares, and says “are you okay” at 8 p.m. on a Friday, when they want to get home to their wife.
35 years in public safety will make you that kind of person. Or maybe you have to be already that kind of person to spend 35 years in public safety. I do not know which one it is. I think maybe it is both.
Jon started Smoketown Security Services because he wanted to do things differently.
I understand that impulse. I started my own company because I wanted to do things differently in how we serve older adults. When you have spent decades inside systems that operate a certain way, and you know in your bones that there is a better way, you eventually stop waiting for permission and build the thing yourself.
Jon built his thing. He keeps it small. He hand-picks his officers. Every detail handled correctly. Clients satisfied. That is not a business philosophy you read in a book. That is a philosophy you earn through 35 years of showing up when other people need you.
I saw that philosophy in action on the side of Interstate 70. I did not read it on a website. I experienced it at 8 p.m., in the cold, from a gentleman who did not know me and asked for nothing.
What I Owe Jon Bruley
I owe Jon a thank you that is bigger than a phone call.
I owe Jon Bruley a public acknowledgment that decent people still exist, that they are out there on the highways and the back roads and the construction sites of Frederick County and Washington County, and that when the worst moment of your Friday arrives, sometimes the best person you have ever met arrives with it.
Jon, from the bottom of my heart: thank you.
Thank you.
Thank you for stopping.
Thank you for the flares.
Thank you for the warm truck.
Thank you for the conversation.
Thank you for driving a total stranger to Frederick to meet his wife.
Thank you for suggesting dinner when you could tell that we both needed to decompress.
Thank you for being the kind of person you are.
I told Kim that night that I wanted to find a way to tell Jon’s story, to put his name out there, to let people know what kind of man he is and what kind of business he runs.
Because if Jon Bruley treats a stranger on the side of I-70 the way he treated me, I can only imagine how he treats his clients.
Could I Ask You A Favor? Please Share This
If you are in Maryland, D.C., Virginia, and are searching for security services, executive protection, or private investigation, I ask you to consider Jon’s company, Smoketown Security Services. Not because Jon asked me to say this. He did not; he has no idea I am writing this.
I am saying it because I saw who Jon Bruley is on a bad night. I met someone I saw, someone I trusted. Someone who helped me when he didn’t have to.
That’s not a Google review written by a stranger who never used the service – it’s a personal endorsement earned at 8 p.m. on Interstate 70 in the dark.
Frederick, Maryland
Good People Doing Good Things When Nobody Is Looking
If you are reading this, I humbly and respectfully ask if you could share this URL link – wherever you’d like: social media, text a friend, hand-deliver it.
Not for me.
For Jon.
Please share it with (and for) every first responder, police officer, firefighter, and EMS professional, every nurse, doctor, medical professional – who put their life on the front line every single day, doing something that so many people are not willing to do: serving for the greater good because they care.
These small acts of kindness have to be highlighted; these stories have to be told.
These are genuinely selfless people. One of the best ways to honor that is to tell the story when one of them does something decent on a Friday night when nobody is watching, and nobody is keeping score.
I saw something in Jon that night that I recognized. I have seen it my whole life.
I saw my late grandfather, Scotty Miner, pull up in a ’69 GMC truck on the side of Route 68 in Western Maryland, headed to our family’s hunting cabin in the Greenridge Mountains off 15 Mile Creek Road. Pappy Miner, Scotty, he would have stopped to help anybody.
The same with my late grandfather, Dick Hann. Everybody knew, “Mr. Hann.” Everybody could count on Mr. Hann to help them with anything.
I saw my dad, Bryan, helping his pals at his river lot with anything and everything, because my father is the kind of guy you go to if you need to get something done. Everybody knows that about Bryan. My father is the man whom you go to when you need something done right.
I saw my stepfather, Leon, spending hours in his woodworking shop making Christmas ornaments for the folks at his church – because it came from the goodness of Leon’s heart. That’s who helped raise me.
That is Hagerstown.
That is Western Maryland.
That is Frederick, Allegany, Garrett.
It’s people – human beings at their finest: Good people doing good things when nobody else is looking.
You look for the helpers.
They are out there.
Hi, I’m Ryan Miner. I write about human beings experiencing life, small-business marketing, artificial intelligence, healthcare, behavioral psychology, branding, marketing, and what actually makes businesses work. I founded Sentinel Silver and The Senior Soup. Email me at Ryan@RyanRMiner.com; text or call me at (240) 244-7075.
