Tyler Smith had always been selective, about people, about choices, about the promises he made. His father, Patrick, had given him two rules that stuck: Choose carefully for a wife. And when something truly matters, be ready to risk everything for it.

By his senior year at IU, Ty was the starting running back and a solid student, good enough to earn a place in graduate school. He graduated in June of 2003, and when he came home, his parents shared something his grandfather had planned decades earlier. A modest investment, patiently left alone, had grown into a fortune.

But the advice that followed mattered more than the money.

“Travel,” his mother said. “See people for who they are.” “And never let anyone know what you’re worth,” Pat added. “Not until you know who they are.”

So Ty bought an old van, stripped out a few seats, and drove.

On November 3rd, six miles east of Cody, Wyoming, the wind howled snow across Route 14. Ty slowed when he saw a car stalled half on the road. Inside sat an elderly woman, shaking and crying. He stopped without hesitation.

Her name was Martha. She was sick, frightened, and nearly out of strength. Her car had died, and worse, she was running out of time. As they talked, one fear eclipsed all others.