“That’s exactly what worries me.”
The Mother shook her head.
“It works.”
“Maybe.”
He looked at the blanket again.
“Maybe too well.”
The Mother did not understand.
Then the biker moved.
Quickly.
He bent beside the child.
The Mother screamed.
“HEY!”
The biker grabbed the blanket with both hands and yanked it away.
The Little Boy woke instantly.
Cold air hit him.
He gasped.
His knees curled toward his chest.
“Mom!”
The Mother lunged at the biker.
“What are you doing?”
She grabbed his vest.
The man straightened, lifting the blanket beyond her reach.
“Give it back!”
The Little Boy began crying.
Not loudly.
The exhausted, confused cry of a child dragged suddenly from sleep.
“Mom, I’m cold.”
“I know, baby.”
The Mother reached again.
The biker turned slightly, keeping the blanket away.
“He’ll freeze!”
Two men in a pickup waiting at a nearby light noticed the confrontation.
One rolled down a window.
The other lifted a phone.
“What the hell?”
someone shouted.
The Mother did not care.
She shoved against the biker’s chest.
He barely moved.
“Give my son his blanket!”
The biker’s eyes never left the fabric.
He found the lower corner.
Held it close.
Rubbed it between two tattooed fingers.
Then smelled it.
His expression changed.
The Mother stopped pushing.
“What?”
The biker stared at the corner.
“Kid might have something worse coming.”
The Mother’s anger exploded again.
“What does that mean?”
The biker carried the blanket several yards away.
“Stay back.”
“What?”
“Everybody.”
He pointed toward the men filming.
“Back up.”
One of them said, “Police are coming.”
“Good.”
The biker laid the blanket flat on the pavement beneath a streetlight.
The Mother stayed beside the Little Boy.
He wore a thin sweatshirt.
Jeans.
Sneakers.
No proper winter coat.
She wrapped her own gray coat partly around him while keeping her body between him and the stranger.
The biker crouched.
Pressed two fingers against the darkest section of the blanket.
He lifted them.
Black residue coated his fingertips.
The Mother stared.
“What is that?”
The biker rubbed his fingers together.
“Oily.”
He looked toward the heater.
Then back toward the blanket.
The fabric near the stain had hardened.
A narrow brown-black mark crossed one faded yellow moon.
The edge looked scorched.
The Mother’s anger weakened.
“No.”
The biker stood.
“Turn the heater off.”
She looked toward it.
“It’s keeping him warm.”
“Turn it off.”
The Mother hesitated.
The biker moved first.
He approached carefully.
Used his boot to slide the heater away from the cardboard.
Then bent down and shut it off.
The orange glow faded.
Immediately the darkness seemed colder.
The Mother pulled her son tighter.
“What did you see?”
The biker pointed toward the floor.
A faint shiny patch marked the pavement near the heater.