Because she's about my own daughter's age, my first thought is "...it must be so hard for her Father to see her like this."
But then I recall hearing of her Father's disinterest in her life during one of our conversations over the years we worked side-by-side before she abruptly stopped showing up, unresponsive to phone calls or texts. My sadness deepens looking at her dissolute state; a Father probably won't be intervening. And then I remember hearing of struggles with abusive men her own age. One of those stories involved a frantic search for a new place to live when she feared for her life.
As she shuffles into the convenience store, I search for something, anything to say. I don't want my face to reveal how her appearance concerns me. At the same time, I don't want to ask trite questions or make polite conversation. The opportunity to interact passes. Ashamed, I start my car and drive away.