I was struck by an exchange between a mother and her young daughter when I recently spoke with them for a story.

The girl had gone through a monthlong pain-management program, and the mom explained that the hospital's strict rules were challenging for a 10-year-old to follow for such a long time.

"I'm not 10," the girl piped up. She had recently turned 11.

You were 10 at the time, her mother gently reminded her.

That momentary focus on the girl's age immediately brought to mind another 10-year-old whose story has been in the news for weeks: the grade schooler who was raped in Ohio and had to be rushed to Indiana for abortion care because of the ban in her home state.

The 11-year-old in front of me was Lyla McCarty. I had previously written about her parents' struggle to get their insurance company to cover inpatient treatment for Lyla's rare pain condition.

Her indignation of being mistaken for 10 reminded me of just how young and tender this age is. Do you remember when a daughter, granddaughter or niece was 10? My girl probably weighed about 60 pounds at that age. Ten-year-old features still carry the softness of smaller kids. They are still young enough to want to play outside, sleep with a stuffed animal and cry out for their mamas when hurt.

It's hard to fathom how terrified and confused a 10-year-old impregnated by a rapist would be. And then, we have to confront the fact that adults in Ohio, and in several states, have deliberately made that horrific nightmare even worse.

When Lyla was 10 -- suffering, in pain -- I witnessed something incredible happen after her story became public: There was an outpouring of compassion, empathy and a desire to help her. Thousands of people stood in line for hours to donate to her cause, and many more purchased cookies online, ultimately raising more than $300,000 for her treatment.

But when the Ohio 10-year-old's story became public, Republicans called it fake and a lie. Ohio Attorney General Dave Yost said it was likely a "fabrication." U.S. Rep. Jim Jordan of Ohio, a Republican, tweeted: "Another lie. Anyone surprised?" He deleted it after a man was charged in the rape case and reportedly confessed. Fox News hosts Tucker Carlson, Jesse Watters and Laura Ingraham initially called it a "hoax" and "politically timed disinformation," and claimed Joe Biden's administration was "lying" about it.

After the arrest, they shifted their focus to the rapist's immigration status rather than admit how grossly wrong they had been.

Even The Wall Street Journal described the case as "An abortion story too good to confirm." In fact, it was easily confirmed -- by a reporter who showed up for a public hearing for the accused.

These reactions -- plus the even more shocking ones by so-called pro-life organizations that insisted the raped 10-year-old should have been forced to give birth, regardless of what her body or mind could handle -- made me wonder: What happened to people's compassion and decency?

Why was it so easy for people to empathize with a 10-year-old with a very rare pain condition, but not with a 10-year-old rape victim who needed medical treatment?

When reports revealed that just in Ohio, 52 girls under the age of 15 sought abortions in 2020, Washington Post columnist Megan McArdle tweeted that fact by prefacing it with "only" 52 girls.

"Only" 52? In one state, in one year?

Maybe it's a coping mechanism to downplay the scenarios that expose one's complicity in cruelty.

The very people who claim a moral justification for imposing their religious beliefs on the medical decisions of others were forced to consider the immorality of this position by the circumstances of an innocent, victimized 10-year-old girl.

Lyla got compassion.

A rape victim her age got persecution.

I'm worried about Tyra Johnson's family in a way I've never worried about a source before.

I met Johnson, a single mom of three kids, two years ago. The pandemic had turned their lives upside down, like it did for millions of others: Johnson lost her job, and the kids missed more than a year of in-person schooling. Making her situation worse, her job had paid little more than minimum wage to begin with, and she and her kids live in a poor, high-crime area of St. Louis.

I was drawn to Johnson's optimistic, cheerful personality and her devotion to her kids. I've written stories about her experiences during the pandemic, and am working on a documentary about them. Since I've known her, she's worked relentlessly, trying to provide a better life for her family.

Her current situation is the most precarious one I've seen her in yet.

When I spoke to her a few weeks ago, Johnson had been ecstatic about getting a job at the Walmart in Granite City, Illinois. The wage ($19 per hour) was more than she'd ever made, and the benefits included a program to help her get her GED. This could be the opportunity that would change her and her children's lives, she said.

But now, she's struggling to get to and from that opportunity.

About a month ago, her car -- a 14-year-old Pontiac G6 with more than 270,000 miles on it -- broke down. She managed to get it repaired, but then it was stolen.

Johnson doesn't have extra money for a car down payment, or the credit to apply for a loan. She texted me, asking if I knew anyone selling a cheap used car she could make payments on.

For now, she takes the bus to Walmart -- two hours each way -- for her overnight shift. But what is she supposed to do with her kids, ages 2, 6 and 8? She found a 24-hour daycare in St. Louis that offers subsidized care, but getting the kids there using public transportation would take multiple bus stops and another two hours. Then after working all night, it would take another several hours to pick up her children and get back home.

There aren't enough hours in a day for this -- even without accounting for a human's need to sleep and eat. As it is, Johnson is barely sleeping a couple of hours at a stretch because she has to take care of her kids after her overnight shift.

For the time being, she's relying on her mom, who works at a gas station during the day, to watch her children overnight while she navigates the buses. It's not tenable for either of them.

This bleak situation got even worse a couple of weeks ago: Johnson's older brother was murdered in St. Louis.

She texted me to ask for a ride to the funeral, but there was no way I could make it in time.

She hasn't really had a chance to grieve the loss because she's been dealing with a traffic ticket she got for driving without a license. The judge told her to get her license and have the ticket dismissed, but she hasn't been able to do so without a car.

Earlier this week, she asked if I could give her a ride to court so she could ask the judge for an extension. She feared that if she missed the court date, they could put out a warrant for her arrest.

I knew that if Johnson ended up in jail for a traffic violation, it would ruin more than just her life. I don't know what would become of her sweet children.

I was able to drive her to court, but she had no one to watch her children while we went. Her mom was at work. We couldn't bring the kids with us because the baby's car seat was in the stolen car.

Finally, a cousin offered to stay with the kids for an hour. Johnson got into my car more upset than I've ever seen her.

"I need transportation. I need daycare. I can't do this anymore," she said.

Even in the worst days of the pandemic, when she was selling lemonade in a park to pay her bills, I've never seen her so discouraged.

She's put her name on a list for a charity that helps single mothers find used cars. It's a long list. She's asked parishioners at her church if anyone has a spare vehicle. She's asked a friend if he will cosign a car loan with her.

While we drove to the courthouse, Johnson called her father, who had been in town for his son's funeral.

He told her to keep her head up.

She cried softly and told him she would.

In the post-Roe era, parents need to consider and discuss what to do in various scenarios in order to protect their kids -- especially if they live in a prohibition state that bans abortion.

Children, adolescents and teenagers all face legal risks in these states, regardless of whether they are sexually active yet.

Sexual assault can result in pregnancy. In addition to teaching young people how to guard their personal safety, it's also important to talk about what to do if someone assaults them and puts them at risk for an unwanted pregnancy.

Open and honest conversations about birth control are critical, said Julie Lynn, spokeswoman for Planned Parenthood of the St. Louis Region and Southwest Missouri. Even if a young person is not facing an unwanted pregnancy, one of their friends may turn to them for help in a moment of crisis.

Emergency contraception, commonly known as Plan B, is a single pill that should be taken within 72 hours after unprotected sex. It is not an abortion pill. It does not require a prescription. It prevents pregnancy in a majority of cases by preventing the ovaries from releasing an egg or stopping sperm from fertilizing an egg.

Plan B can be purchased at pharmacies and online. A single dose costs $17 on hellowisp.com; at local pharmacies, the cost is usually around $50. Other emergency contraceptive brands include Next Choice One Dose, Aftera and EContra One-Step. All of these options are still legal in every state.

Women have been stocking up on this over-the-counter medication. Given that the medicine is time-sensitive, it makes sense to have a supply on hand.

Another emergency contraceptive, known as Ella, is more effective than Plan B and can be taken up to five days after unprotected sex. However, it does require a prescription from a nurse or doctor. It is possible to get a prescription after an online consultation. In most states, emergency contraception can be obtained through the Planned Parenthood Direct app, or online from Nurx.com or PRJKTRUBY.com.

Whichever emergency contraceptive you take, if you don't get your period within three weeks, take a pregnancy test to be sure it worked.

A longer-term contraception option is an IUD, which can prevent pregnancy for several years -- as few as five years or as many as 12, depending on the type. The device is inserted into the uterus by a doctor.

"More people have been calling and looking to our health center for IUDs" in the weeks since abortion was banned in Missouri, said Lynn.

Reproductive rights and privacy organizations are advising people to be much more careful with their digital footprints. This is especially important in prohibition states like Missouri, and with younger people, who default to communicating digitally with one another.

It's vital to use secure communications when discussing or researching the need for abortion care. Using an encrypted messaging app like Signal offers more privacy protection, as well as the option for messages to be automatically deleted after a set time. Other recommendations include using a privacy-minded search engine, such as DuckDuckGo, instead of Google when looking for information. Downloading a virtual private network, or VPN, protects a person's browsing history.

There are a patchwork of laws regulating abortion and reproductive rights that vary by state. Some interpretations of legal risks and liabilities are still being sorted out.

However, it's important for young people to know their rights. There are still several states where the right to an abortion is protected by law. Check abortionfinder.org to locate the nearest place to get one.

"If you are a patient in Springfield, Missouri, or Austin, Texas, you will still need to travel," Lynn said. "It's just a matter of how many hundreds of miles."