The first thing Daisy noticed about the old man was his beard.
It was white.
Not gray.
Not silver.
White.
It spilled over the collar of his leather vest and almost reached the center of his chest.
The second thing she noticed was the motorcycle.
Black.
Huge.
Shiny enough to catch the red and green Christmas lights blinking around the windows of the gas station.
Daisy watched both from behind the vending machine.
She had been hiding there for almost three hours.
Nobody had asked her to leave yet.
That made the place better than most.
The gas station sat by itself beside a two-lane highway outside a small Colorado town called Red Creek.
Behind it were pine trees.
Across the highway was an empty field disappearing beneath fresh snow.
The next real town was eleven miles away.
On Christmas Eve, most people simply passed through.
Daisy preferred places like that.
People going somewhere rarely noticed children who had nowhere to go.
She pulled her knees tighter against her chest.
Her coat was too large.
The sleeves covered most of her hands.
It had once belonged to another girl at a church clothing closet.
Daisy knew because someone had written MELISSA inside the collar with black marker.
Daisy did not mind.
Melissa's coat was warmer than no coat.
Her jeans were damp around the knees.
One sneaker had a split near the toe.
The other had a shoelace that had been knotted so many times it was mostly knots.
Against her chest she held a small brown teddy bear.
One plastic eye remained.
The other had disappeared years ago.
A tear ran across one ear, repaired with blue thread that did not match.
His name was Buttons.
Daisy had owned him since she could remember.
Some nights she slept with him under her coat so he would not get wet.
That was silly.
She knew teddy bears did not feel cold.
But sometimes knowing something and feeling something were different.
Daisy understood that better than most seven-year-olds.
Inside the gas station, a Christmas song played through cheap ceiling speakers.
Something about home.
Daisy tried not to listen.
Home was a dangerous word.
Once, home had meant a little yellow apartment building.
Then home became a motel.
Then another motel.
Then the back seat of a car.
Then the car disappeared too.
After that, home became wherever Daisy managed to close her eyes without someone telling her to move.
She had slept behind a laundromat.
Inside the stairwell of a parking garage.
Under a picnic shelter.
Two nights inside an unlocked maintenance shed behind a church.
Last night she had slept beneath the awning behind the gas station.
Tonight she hoped to sleep inside the storage alcove near the dumpster.
It smelled bad.
But the wind could not reach it.
That counted as luxury now.
Daisy had learned not to ask strangers for much.
People asked questions.
Questions led to other people.
Other people led to offices.
Offices led to forms.
Forms led to somebody saying:
“We’re going to find a safe place for you.”
Daisy had heard that before.
The last safe place had contained a woman who screamed whenever Daisy woke from nightmares.
The place before that had contained a teenage boy who kept taking Buttons and hiding him.
Daisy ran before anyone could send her somewhere worse.
She had been moving ever since.
She did not understand that half the county was searching for her.
She only understood one thing.
Nobody could take Buttons if nobody found her.
The gas station clerk had noticed her earlier.
His name tag said MARTIN.
He was young.
Maybe twenty.
He had given her hot chocolate.
Daisy told him her mother was in the bathroom.
There was no mother in the bathroom.
Martin became busy when several customers arrived.
Daisy slipped outside.
Now she watched the old biker.
He had parked beside pump three.
His motorcycle looked too clean for winter.
Snow melted across the black fuel tank.
The old man removed his gloves.
He flexed his fingers.
Then he walked inside.
Daisy shifted behind the vending machine.
Through the window, she saw him speak to Martin.
Martin handed him coffee.
The old man paid.
Then he looked toward a cardboard donation box near the register.
It had photographs of children taped to the side.
RED CREEK CHILDREN’S CHRISTMAS FUND.
The biker opened his wallet.
He put several bills inside.
Daisy counted what she could see.