The biker had parked.
Run.
He remembered the driver.
Young woman.
Blood across her temple.
Seat belt jammed.
Pregnant.
Very pregnant.
She had been conscious.
Barely.
She kept saying the same thing.
“My baby.”
“My baby.”
“My baby.”
He cut the belt.
He still remembered how carefully he tried lifting her.
How terrified he had been.
The truck hissed.
Something sparked.
He carried her away.
She screamed once.
Then stopped.
That scream had followed him for years.
He stayed until paramedics arrived.
Then an officer pushed everyone back.
The biker gave a statement.
Waited.
Asked if the woman lived.
Nobody knew.
He left before dawn.
He had always assumed the worst.
The biker opened his eyes.
The Little Girl stood before him.
Pink raincoat.
Sketchbook.
Alive.
The Mother whispered:
“You saved both of us.”
He shook his head immediately.
“No.”
The Little Girl frowned.
Her Mother said:
“Yes.”
“No.”
“You pulled me out.”
“Anybody would’ve.”
“They didn’t.”
The biker looked toward the parking lot.
He remembered people watching.
Frozen.
Uncertain.
He had hated them for years.
Then eventually understood fear could make good people useless for a few seconds.
Still.
He shook his head.
“Paramedics saved you.”
“They told me you carried me nearly fifty yards.”
“Truck was dangerous.”
“You went back twice.”
The biker looked confused.
“Twice?”
The Mother smiled through tears.
“You went back for my bag.”
Memory returned.
A handbag in the footwell.
The woman had become frantic because it contained identification and medical information.
He had gone back.
Stupidly.
The biker muttered:
“Shouldn’t have done that.”
The Little Girl looked horrified.
“Why?”
“Truck could’ve caught fire.”
“But Mom needed her bag.”
“Your mom needed me not becoming a second patient.”
The Mother laughed.
The sound shook.
The biker looked at the child.
“How old are you?”
“Eight.”
“When’s your birthday?”
The girl told him.
The biker calculated.
His face changed again.
The Mother saw.
“Yes.”
She rested one hand on her daughter’s shoulder.
“She was there.”
The biker stared.
“No.”
The Mother nodded.
“I was thirty-one weeks pregnant.”
The Little Girl looked proud.
“Asleep.”